Warrior, Leader, Lover, King
by il-bambino
Summary: Set 12 and a half years in to the knights' service. A young Irish girl is sighted in Castellum, and that night, an assassination attempt is executed. Suddenly, everything the knights know and believe in is drastically challenged. M for sex and language.
1. Artorius Castus

**Chapter One: Artorius Castus**

Artorius Castus and his knights sat around a circular, roughly-hewn wood table in a dimly-lit corner of the largest tavern east of Hadrian's Wall. A candle, sat in the melted wax of its predecessors, flickered in the centre of the table, throwing shattered shadows against the wall. Artorius watched as a trailing swirl of smoke curled from its tip and drew patterns in the air. He sent a small breath of air toward it and watched the thin grey substance twist and expand eerily, floating on until it disappeared into the shadows.

'Arthur?' An apprehensive voice broke through Arthur's reverie. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and looked to see who had spoken. Gareth was, at a mere 17, by far the youngest of Arthur's knights and definitely the most ignorant and naïve when it came to women. Looking into the boy's wide blue eyes, Arthur felt a fatherly desire to protect him from the world. _He is not old enough,_Arthur thought, _to die._

'Yes, Gareth?'

'You look troubled, my lord. Is it anything we -' the knight was halted by a dismissive wave from Arthur's hand. Arthur usually treated all his knights on the same level as himself, but when he felt they were encroaching into his personal life, he made it very clear how the hierarchy worked. Gareth looked frightened for a moment, then turned back to his tankard of mild ale. He looked up furtively at his friends to see if any had noticed the exchange. Although he would never admit it to his brother or the other knights, he was absolutely terrified of their leader, and always had been.

Lancelot was staring determinedly at the candle, as if he had just been looking elsewhere and didn't want it known. He seemed absorbed with his thoughts, not paying much attention to Bors and Dagonet's sexist joking. The two largest knights swapped jokes and roared loudly in turn, attracting stranger's glares and comments. Galahad and Gawain, a plate of meat stew long-since cooled between them, discussed past conquests and disappointments with women. Gawain felt eyes on him, and looked up. He saw his brother and smiled, turning back to Galahad's mutterings. Gareth shifted his gaze to the far corner of the table, where Tristan sat silently, his gold-brown eyes smouldering in the light of his pipe. The dark blue tattoos on Tristan's cheeks, stark against the pale skin, singled him out as a warrior from the Hyrci tribe of Sarmation warriors. He absentmindedly fed slivers of meat to his hawk which clung to his arm with long talons. The hawk had no name; Tristan had been quite clear on that. He felt that to name an animal was to tame it.

Tristan, like Gawain felt eyes on him and looked up to meet Gareth's gaze. But he did not smile in friendship. Instead, he kicked back his chair and stalked from the table, not looking back. A sudden silence swelled between the knights as they all looked, startled, at Tristans' receding back.

'I think,' Arthur murmured, 'that is our queue to leave.' The Roman General kicked back his chair and strode past the bar, throwing a few silver coins onto the counter. The barmaid nodded her thanks and disappeared into the back. Arthur saw, out of the corner of his eye, five men wearing hooded cloaks muttering quietly between themselves. They kept shooting surreptitious glowers toward him and the knights still seated back at their table. _Could be trouble,_Arthur thought.

'Bors!' he called. One by one, the rest of the knights stood too, and followed their leader outside into the cold twilight. Gawain heard a screech, and looked up just in time to see Tristan's hawk flying away into the dark. He shook his head, worried for his friend.

'Come!' Arthur yelled. 'If we leave now we can reach the wall by dawn.' He climbed into the saddle of his grey mare, Denali, and kicked his heels in to her belly. She reared and he grabbed her reins, pulling her into submission, and forced her into a gallop. Bors and Dagonet mounted their own horses, followed quickly by Gareth and Galahad. Gawain clambered onto his brown stallion, and Lancelot waved them on. The five of them cantered away, following their leader's tracks, leaving Lancelot stroking his mare's neck.

'They've gone, Tristan. You can come out,' Lancelot said softly. For a moment, nothing changed, and the wind was the only sound.

'They think the worst of me, I'm afraid,' Tristan shook his head as he appeared from within the stable, his long braids brushing his shoulders and his eyes glinting in the muted light.

'Just like me, they are worried for you. You've been so detached since we escaped those Woads in the forest. Arthur knows something happened there. He's been troubling himself over it ever since. I wish you would tell him, and put him out of his-' Tristan cut him off, placing his hand over his mouth. He drew his sword – a long, curved blade with a double-handled hilt – and indicated that Lancelot should too. The scraping of a weapon being drawn from its scabbard gave only a seconds warning to the two men. Lancelot ducked just in time to avoid being beheaded by a calculated swing of a short sword, and drew his two blades from his cross-scabbards on his back, thrusting one into the nearing darkness.

A short grunt and the sound of a body hitting the ground told him the attacker was dead. Hearing the clash of blades, he turned back to Tristan. The other knight was fighting a small, cloaked man using two short assassins' daggers. Lancelot plunged his sword into the man's shoulder, and he fell to the floor, bleeding copiously. Tristan nodded his thanks and looked around, his gold eyes piercing the darkness.

Suddenly, three cloaked men appeared from the shadows in triangle formation. They threw off their cloaks and all drew long swords, advancing on the two knights.

'Dammit,' Lancelot swore under his breath. He crouched slightly, readying his body for a fight. Tristan did the same, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. The leader of the men flourished his sword, and sliced at Tristan, whose arms shook as he absorbed the strike with his own blade. Lancelot charged at the other two men, disarming one with a quick slash to his upper arm, and engaging the other with a fast, double-sword attack. He had the upper hand, and quickly got under his opponent's outstretched arm and dealt him a fatal blow to the neck. Lancelot turned back to his friend, only to see that Tristan was out of his depth. The man he was fighting was clearly a skilled swordsman, and didn't attack, but only parried, waiting for a chance to slip under Tristan's arm and kill him. Lancelot could only watch as his friend was pushed backwards and downwards, struggling to beat back his attacker.

Tristan's arm was bleeding heavily, and the blood caused his hands to slip on the blade and he dropped it, becoming unarmed and undefended in one second. As the assassin brought back his blade to strike, Lancelot made his move, driving his blade into the mans stomach and up, piercing his lung.

The assassin dropped to the floor, writhing in pain, blood bubbling from his mouth. Lancelot lifted up his sword and brought it down on the man's chest, ending his agony. Tristan, breathing heavily, pulled himself up to a standing position.

'What…the Hell…was _that?'_he choked, bending over to try and regain his breath. Lancelot picked up Tristans blade from the ground and handed it back to him. 'Thanks…' Tristan breathed, sliding it back into his scabbard.

'No idea,' said Lancelot thoughtfully, bending down to view one of the bodies. He flicked back the bloodied cloak to reveal the dead mans pale skin. Over his chest and up his throat were the swirling blue patterns that identified him as Woad.

'We must have made some enemies at the last Woad attack. But I thought we killed enough of them so they wouldn't come looking for revenge.' Lancelot sighed and looked up at Tristan, who was binding his arm with a length of black cloth ripped from his tunic. Lancelot snorted. 'Levin is going to have your head for that,' he smiled, indicating the torn tunic.

'Let's catch up with the others,' Tristan said gruffly. 'Maybe they'll be wondering where we are.' Lancelot nodded his consent and they both mounted their horses, digging in their heels; the horses neighed and galloped down the dirt track, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

**So… what did you think? Please review, even if it's only a few words. I'd really appreciate it.**


	2. Family Is Wealth

**Chapter Two: Family Is Wealth**

'Well, they weren't that well trained. Tristan and I managed to overcome them quite easily.' Lancelot was describing to Arthur and the other knights the recent events at the tavern. Arthur nodded.

'But you said there was one, the leader…?' He asked, nearly anxious.

'He was a good fighter. Well trained. Almost killed Tristan, didn't he?' Tristan grunted in agreement, then winced as Dagonet poked at his arm.

'You think there will be more, Lancelot? Good, well let's get going,' he continued as Lancelot shook his head. The knights, who had been standing just off the road, all mounted their horses. Arthurs armour rattled as he climbed into the saddle.

'Tristan, ride ahead. If there are no more disturbances, we may still reach the Wall by tomorrow.'

They set off, Tristan urging his horse onwards into the darkness before the others. He enjoyed scouting, enjoyed the feeling of being free and ahead of Arthur. While scouting, he often let his mind roam to his family. Tristan knew nothing of them - whether they were alive or dead, at peace or war. Being so far away from them had never really bothered him - he had left at such a young age he barely remembered his mother's face, or his sister's.

His arm ached, and he tried to push it to the back of his mind. Trees rushed out of the darkness, and suddenly Tristan was encased in thick black trunks and wiry branches. He heard the _phooot_of an arrow being loosed a fraction before it buried itself into the tree a millimetre away from where his head had just been.

'Woads!' He yelled, pulling the reins of his horse sharply, turning her round. As he kicked his heels in, a flurry of arrows came shooting from the darkness, narrowly missing the knight and his horse.

Tristan urged his horse faster and faster until they broke through the boundaries of the forest, followed by yet more arrows, and onto the road. _Faster, faster,_ he shouted inside his head. 'Woads!' Tristan roared again as Arthur and the knights came into view, heads down, galloping towards him.

The knights pulled up, on the brink of entering the forest. Everything was silent, and the moon shone down on the knights, lighting up their faces.

'Are you sure –?' Lancelot began, only to be cut off as an arrow thudded into the ground right in front of him.

'Dammit!' Galahad yelled, as around twenty men raced out of the woods, sparsely clad and brandishing hand-made swords and bows. As they drew closer, the blue marks swirling over their chests and arms became clear.  
The knights drew their weapons, plunging into the wave of Woad soldiers. Gareth's horse was the first down, followed by Bors'. The latter wielded a huge mace and short sword, using them to sweep aside the blue-painted men. Arthur was on the ground, trying to use his shield to force away a manic Woad. Suddenly the Woad went limp, and Arthur pushed him aside to see Dagonet standing over him. Arthur nodded his thanks, and thrust his sword into another Woad, who screamed as the metal pierced his flesh.

Lancelot was slicing with his two swords, seemingly enjoying himself. He ducked under a wild swing and sunk his sword into the offending Woad. Tristan was battling away a man with massive muscles and an even larger double-handled sword. He parried and blocked, unable to find a hole in the mans defence. Abruptly, his opponent lost his balance, and Tristan pushed him away, forcing his curved sword between his outstretched arms. The man hit the floor with a satisfactory thud.

Galahad and Gawain were fighting back-to-back, disarming and killing Woads quickly and skilfully, and leaving no time for their opponents to get a sword between their arms.

Gareth, armed with only a small dagger in each hand, was facing an exceptionally blue Woad soldier. The Woad had a double-handed long sword clutched in his hands, ready to attack. With no warning, he launched himself towards Gareth, with an unexpectedly large amount of force. Gareth, caught unawares, fell back, dropping one dagger and barely keeping a hold of the second. He slashed at his adversary's face, rewarded by a spurt of blood, and sliced again at his chest. But in doing so, he left his own abdomen unprotected.

'Gareth!' Gawain yelled. Gareth, confused and distracted from the Woad in front of him, turned to see who had called.

Knocking the dagger out of his hand, the Woad sliced with his sword, lacerating Gareth's unprotected stomach.

'_No!_' Gawain roared. The Woad pulled back his sword to finish Gareth's life and Tristan threw his own sword towards him. It soared through the air and buried itself nearly up to the hilt in the Woad's back.

Gareth fell backwards, limp, blood pouring from his stomach, the dead Woad on top of him.

'Gawain?' He whispered, blood bubbling in his mouth. 'Where are you…?'

* * *

As the sun rose over the Roman-run town at Hadrian's Wall, Arthur and his seven knights raced through the gates and town on horseback. Over one horse laid a body, seemingly lifeless. Gareth's blood dripped from the horse, even through his bindings. The triangle of horses rushed to the stables outside of the knights' quarters, and their riders jumped down hurriedly. Gawain lifted Gareth's body with Tristan's help and heaved him into the building, towards the healer's rooms. They lay him on the table, and Tristan left, touching Gawain softly on the shoulder, shutting the door tightly behind him.

Inside the room, Helsin the healer unbound Gareth's bleeding stomach and winced. Gareth moaned in pain, and Gawain looked up at Helsin worriedly.

'What did you do to him this time?' the healer asked, sighing. Gawain put his head in his hands. Helsin sighed again and set to fixing the hole in the youngest knight's stomach.

* * *

Helsin finished binding Gareth's stomach and stood back from his flaccid body.

'He'll be okay… he just needs to rest. Only the Gods know what'll happen if the wound doesn't heal. But I can guess, and so can you, Gawain,' she said grimly. Gawain nodded and pushed a strand of white-blonde hair from his brother's face. 'He'll never be able to fight again if he doesn't listen to what I say. Maybe in a few days I'll let him walk around a bit. Get some rest, Gawain. You look like you need it.' Helsin rubbed his arm in a friendly way before leaving the two brothers alone.

'Oh Gareth, my brother. Don't ever leave me…' Gawain mumbled to his brother's unconscious form.

* * *

Meanwhile, a dappled grey horse was galloping full-pelt towards the Roman-run town on Hadrian's Wall, it's rider a seventeen year old girl, with waist-length black hair, entwined with green beads. As the horse moved beneath her, the wind caught her hair and pulled it back from her face. She was pretty, some might say, with a very angular chin and prominent eyes the colour of the sea. They were very deep, and the harder you looked, the more colours you could see swirling around the black pupil. Her cheeks were flushed a slight pink from the exertion of riding, and there were beads of sweat on her brow. She was slender, not extremely tall, with a slightly flattened chest for one her age.

Those who saw her might think she looked free, but those who thought that were cataclysmically wrong. She was bound by the worst of all bargains: a bargain to her self. For who can escape themselves? Only the dead can be truly separated from their minds.

She wore a pale blue linen tunic, and high-waisted brown wool breeches – plainly dressed in male clothing. As she moved with the motion of the horse, a chain pendant slipped from under her tunic and swung forwards. A pendant made of high-quality silver, shaped like a hawk, hung heavily from the chain. Its obvious wealth was stark against the girl's plain dress, and anyone who was looking closer would have noticed the ring on her index finger, a small emerald encased in silver. And had she been robbed – which was unlikely due to the large and very visible sword at her belt – any cursory search of her bag would have revealed more jewellery, all very fine and valuable.

But the girl riding the horse didn't care about the money her jewellery could fetch at any pawnbrokers. For her, wealth only meant one thing: family.

As she neared her destination, the girl thought ahead to what would happen when she got there. She would need lodging, of course. Who knew how long she would be there? She had to note the number of guards, where the best place would be to… she felt a tug on her insides as she thought about the fact that it would happen _soon._ All these years of waiting, hoping, hatred,_fear_… the constant hole where her heart should have been, as if someone had ripped away her skin and torn her soul out, burnt it, mutilated it – and then put it back.

_So soon, so soon,_ she thought to herself._I will have fulfilled my purpose on this earth. Not long now._ The girl trembled with anticipation as she crested a hill and looked down at the town and fort spread out like a fat beetle below her. A large white building, surrounded by trees and with a vast expanse of green land behind it, lay just to one side of the fort. And all the while there was the wall. The never-ending snake she had followed for days now.

But there it was: the end of her journey. She let loose one breath of relief and kicked her heels; the dappled grey horse cantered down the hill, coming ever closer to the fabled Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.


	3. Lancelot

**Chapter Three: Lancelot**

Lancelot and Galahad walked down the orchard towards the marketplace, sweating in the mid-day sun. It had been two days since they returned from the battle with the Woads where Gareth had gotten injured, and tensions were high within the knights' circle of mutual friendship. Gawain was with his brother in the healers quarters, and Arthur demanded to be left alone in his rooms – which left Lancelot feeling snubbed, for Arthur and him were very good friends. Bors and Dagonet were in the training square, fighting each other for fun and, as Bors put it, 'getting impressive scars.' Lancelot wasn't worried for either of them; Bors and Dagonet were evenly matched in a fight – neither could get a touch on the other. Tristan was being his usual self, detached and lonesome, and so only Galahad and Lancelot were left to go into the town, for neither of them wanted to get hideous sunburn training in the squares.

As it was, Galahad and Lancelot decided to go into town and wile away their spare time in the tavern. Walking pace-for-pace with one another, they reached the end of the orchard and turned left, almost immediately engulfed in the solid wall of sounds and smells that separated the town from the rest of the world. The town was large and square, surrounded by a high wall, with the market square at its absolute centre, ever in the shadow of Hadrian's wall.

There were people everywhere. Children laughed and screamed, playing games down the sides of the roads; Old men sat on stools outside their front doors, mumbling and nodding their heads; Women, on their way to the shops, stopped to chat with their neighbours. The suns heat was visible – the ground was hazy, blurred – as was its effect on the townspeople. Red-faced, wearing as little as possible without being indecent, the people marched side-by-side, flustering and fanning themselves.

Galahad leading the way, the two knights fought through the crowds of people and emerged, sweating, in the market place, the centre of life for the townspeople. Pressing in on the square from all sides were a mixture of bakeries, butchers, taverns and a Roman bath house. Looking around, Lancelot shook his head in disgust. Roman soldiers were everywhere, their red cloaks easily visible, 'keeping the peace' in the town.

Lancelot and Galahad stood at the top of the steps that descended to market level, gazing over the tops of the stalls' canvas roofs. They looked around at the hubbub and noise of the market square, overwhelmed by the amount of people. _There must be some kind of festival going on_, Lancelot mused. _So that's why there are so many more people than usual!_

The sacred colour green was everywhere – it hung in banners from upstairs windows, flapping in the wind; children had sticks with green ribbons hanging from the ends; several of the people closest to Lancelot had green armbands on, carefully tied.

A girl pushed past Lancelot, moving quickly away from him, down the steps and into the crowds of citizens. Her waist-length, black hair - typical of a Sarmation - swung as she walked, dazzlingly dark, green beads woven in with fine gold threads. Before she disappeared, Lancelot caught a glimpse of an angular chin, straight nose and full lips. She was thin, he could see – slim, muscled thighs and small hips. As she vanished between two women, keenly perusing warm bread, she turned and met his gaze. Then she was gone.

'I'll be back in a minute,' Lancelot said to Galahad, already leaping down the steps two at a time, eager to find the girl again. He slipped past some musicians and into the market, leaving Galahad staring after him, confounded. Lancelot pushed his way into the grid of stalls and aisles, trying to catch sight of the girl again. There she was! One line of stalls over, examining some fruit. He watched her carefully, scrutinizing her every movement. She was Sarmation by the look of her; very black hair, angular features, bottomless eyes. Lancelot noticed a small bulge at her thigh. _Concealed knife?_He thought to himself. _And she grows ever more intriguing._She would make a worthy conquest, to be sure.

Lancelot smiled as she 'accidentally' banged into a woman who fell into the fruit stall and dropped her basket. Apples rolled everywhere. Lancelot stared with increasing incredulity and amusement as the girl bent down, swiftly shoved three apples into her bag and picked the rest up, handing them to the woman, both hands in sight. Lancelot laughed as the girl bowed and walked away, three stolen apples in her canvas bag. He followed her like a wolf and his prey, getting closer behind her with every step. Some of Bors' children ran up to her and she bent down as if to talk to them, but Lancelot saw her deft hands sneak under the stall and pull out a box of liquorice. She handed a stick each to the children, who ran off, laughing and smiling, then shoved the rest of them in her bag. As she stood up, she turned again and Lancelot ducked quickly behind a stall selling jewellery. When he reappeared, the girl was gone.

Dammit! He swore to himself. Where is she? The knight spun round, searching for a swirl of dark hair, an elegant gait. There! Almost at the end of the row, a flash of green and gold, barely ten meters away. Lancelot breathed in, squeezing his body between two stalls and saw a bubble of space ahead, a few footsteps behind the girl. He smirked and sauntered up behind her, reaching into her bag with one hand. Feeling his hand, the girl whirled round, looking accusatorially at Lancelot, who was leaning against a pottery stall in front of her, nonchalantly eating one of her apples.

She thrust a hand into her pocket, looking slightly surprised when Lancelot held a dagger up before her, one that had been, until quite recently, hidden in a sheath strapped to her thigh.

'Looking for this?' He said, grinning. She snatched the dagger, shoving it back into her pocket.

'Sir Lancelot,' she acknowledged, glaring at him. Lancelot was surprised to hear a fairly strong Irish accent in her voice. He had been sure she was Sarmation. He stood up, and took another bite of her apple.

'You know, that's called theft,' he tutted.

'You can talk!' she laughed, knocking the apple out of his hand.

'Well, if you are going to wear such… tight trousers, you can be assured someone, like myself, will notice your concealed knife and steal it… much like I did. And, those apples were nice. Anyway,' he continued. 'How did you know my name?'

The girl smiled wolfishly up at him.

'Well, you walk around as if you are better than anyone else, as if you could have any woman to bed you in three seconds. Typical of a knight. And,' she continued as he made to interrupt, 'you have a smug air about you, like you believe you are doing the best for everyone else and that they would do well to remember it. You are alone, so presumably your friends are in a tavern somewhere getting heavily drunk, although there is a tightness to your jaw that suggests you are worried for someone – a friend, or a woman. But you wouldn't be following me if you already had a girl in your bed. Then there is the overconfident shield you have around you – you are maybe feeling snubbed because another friend prefers their own company over yours.' Lancelot went to speak, but she overrode him again. 'You have muscles, but you're not overly muscled, which tells me you have some sort of disdain for training – maybe your friends are fighting and you would rather follow mysterious women than sweat away your days. But your clothes gave it away – and the descriptions I have of you. But, to tell the truth, the kind lady over there,' she gestured non-commitally with one hand, 'told me who you were.'

The girl smiled expectantly at Lancelot, who looked rather stunned. He looked around uncertainly, and laughed to cover his amazement and disbelief.

'Now if you would, Sir Knight,' she said complacently, bowing to him. Lancelot blinked, and she was gone.


	4. Someone Is Following Me

**Chapter Four: Someone Is Following Me**

Avilon smiled to herself as she tripped up the stairs out of the sunken market square. Leaving the noise behind her, she slipped down an alleyway and breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't given anything away – no name, no proof that she knew how to use weapons, no nothing. Except that the stuck up knight now knew she was a thief, but oh well. _He'll survive, _she thought, _and so will I._

Looking around, she caught sight of a tavern with an open square, covered seating areas and a building with an open front. She crossed the roofless square – doubtless followed by many a young man's eye – to the bar, and leaned on the counter. Looking around, she noticed the exits and committed them to memory. A red-headed woman, much older than Avilon, appeared behind the bar, smiling at her kindly.

'I need lodging for a few nights, and some food wouldn't be unwelcome either.' Avilon hadn't eaten for a few days, and the apples in her bag wouldn't do much to stave off the pangs of hunger.

'We've got high rates – the rooms here are good quality. Can you –?' The barmaid's question died in her throat as Avilon dropped a ring on the counter. It was a thick band of gold, with a heavy ruby set in the shining metal. The woman eyed it suspiciously, picked it up and looked closer at it, checking for the signs of a fake. She seemed content with it, however, and led Avilon away from the bar and into the building without another word. They climbed some stairs - stone, with ridges at the edges - and went past a few statues before coming to a square landing with four doors.

'You can lodge here,' the barmaid said respectfully. She opened a door onto a large room with a straw bed and hangings in the windows. Avilon nodded, dumping her bag on a small table. Avilon followed the woman as she showed her the second room – a washroom with a wooden tub, a white-wood screen and an unusually wide window that flooded the room with sunlight. The rooms were very Roman - curved iron, and soft drapes.

'If you need a bath, just ask and I'll heat some water for you,' the woman said, smiling. She left quietly, shutting the door behind her.

Avilon crossed the room and picked up her bag, up-ending it onto the table. Two apples, four sticks of liquorice, three small daggers and a silver comb fell out, clattering loudly. Avilon winced as one of her better daggers dropped from the table and onto the floor, hitting it with a shrill, metallic sound. She bent to pick it up, her hair falling over her face. It was silver, and large, with a snake entwined on the hilt. It was by far her favourite, and she had used it many times before. She set it down on the table, dizzy from the memories overcoming her.

_Slashing, cutting, blinded by the blood in her eyes, pouring from the gash on her forehead, she threw herself onto the man in front of her. Taking only a second to wipe the blood out of her eyes, in one fluid movement, she pulled the dagger back and stabbed it into his chest. The man writhed beneath her, limper and limper until his movements ceased. Avilon stood back from the body and pulled off her shirt, wringing it out in front of her. The blood dripped steadily from it, pooling on the floor. There was a banging on the door a metre to her left._

'_Gods truth!' Avilon swore vehemently, and the banging sounded louder. She launched herself towards the window, scraping her arm on the frame as she jumped out, falling two storeys and hitting the ground with a crunch. 'Shit! Shit, SHIT that hurt,' she yelped, already picking herself up from the ground and limping away into the twilight._

'Wooah,' Avilon murmured, clutching at the table for support. _That life is OVER now,_ she told herself. Shaking her head at her own weakness, she checked that her dagger was still in the sheath tied round her thigh and shoved the other knives under the straw-stuffed pillow of the bed. Pulling open the door and locking it behind her, Avilon took the stairs two at a time and exited the tavern the back way.

For a second, she was uncertain as to where exactly she was, but quickly found a familiar alleyway that would take her back to the market square. The square itself was emptying quickly, leaving the stall owners packing away, their business done for today.

Crossing the square, Avilon entered the myriad of alleyways that was the town, searching for the stables where Falada, her horse, was. She felt uneasy – something wasn't right. Avilon turned round quickly, and nearly jumped out of her skin when a black-and-white cat leaped down from a window-frame, where it had been sunbathing quite happily.

'Gods truth, kitty, you scared me half to death,' Avilon breathed a sigh of relief. She was haunted by shadows – day and night. Ever since she…

_Don't think about it. Stop thinking about it. Right now. _Avilon turned her back on the cat and set off again, rounding a corner to come out in a small square with – finally – a smallish stable housing three horses.

'Falada,' Avilon said soothingly, stroking her stallion's grey flanks. She loved her horse so much, that when they were separated for long periods of time, it hurt her to breath. Ignoring the other horses' signs of distress at her presence, Avilon unloosed Falada's reins from the post and led him out of the stables, crossing the square quickly. There, she climbed into the saddle and Falada, sensing her familiar shape, trotted casually from the square, allowing her to guide him back to the tavern.

Still, Avilon felt that something was wrong, out of place. She felt unbearable exposed and lonely. _You've been alone since you were nine, you foolish girl! _She told herself fiercely. _Pull yourself together!_ But she kept flicking her head round; sure that someone was following her. Arriving at the tavern none-too-soon, she led Falada to the large, spacious stables there, removing his reins, saddle bags and saddle and tying him to the post with some rope. Falada shook his flanks playfully while she tried to brush his coat and wouldn't stand still when she checked his hooves for stones.

'Falada, stop that!' she laughed at him. Yet, Avilon still couldn't shake the feeling she had that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Like something was about to happen…

Thoroughly spooked, she picked up Falada's saddlebags, hauling them over her shoulder. Halfway through the double-doors, she turned to look one last time. The tip of a black braid vanished round the corner. In that second, Avilon knew that she was being followed and had been since she left the tavern an hour ago. The feeling gave her shiverfeet - who was it that was following her? Evin was dead - it couldn't be him, so who...? The question hung in the air before her, unanswered and unwilling to provide one.

She went back through the tavern, climbed the stairs and unlocked her door faster than she knew she could. Once her door was shut safely behind her, Avilon dumped the saddle bags and collapsed onto the bed.

'Aaaaah,' she sighed. It felt so good to have a proper straw-stuffed mattress beneath her bones. For the last seven months she had been resting on hard ground, blankets and the occasional wood floor. The mattress seemed to suck her in, and she had to fight hard not to give in to the urge to _sleep._

Reluctantly climbing from the bed, Avilon scooped up the saddle bags and flipped open the leather flaps, revealing the contents, which she proceeded to remove, carefully laying them out on the bed beside her.

Two clean linen tunics, a pair of woollen breeches, a pale blue night-shirt, two small iron boxes with patterns etched in the lids, a light-cotton undershirt, mint leaves and three thick blankets. Left in the bottom were a few flint pieces and some bronze coinage. Avilon picked up a coin and rubbed her thumb over the raised image on one side – a lion. Sighing, she lifted the lid of one of the boxes, revealing a wide range of sparkling jewels, and dropped the coins in. Avilon cast a disparaging look over the fortune in front of her and snapped the lid shut.

Fingering the charm around her neck, she stood and opened the chest of drawers experimentally. Its drawers were deep and empty. Avilon placed the tunic, breeches, stockings, shift and blankets in a drawer and left the night-shirt on the bed with the mint-leaves and the rest of her belongings. A stab of hunger punched into her stomach. _Food,_ she thought. _I need food._

She left the room, striding across the landing and down the stairs. As Avilon reached half-way a fairly familiar voice cut through the low chattering that came from the tap-room below her, stopping her in her tracks.

'Yes, Irish. I know – I was quite surprised too. But, Gods truth, she was as pretty as the night sky.'

Another voice, one that Avilon didn't know, spoke over the last one.

'Yea Lancelot. She was feisty too eh? Tell them about how she reacted to your charms – it'll be a welcome laugh.'

Avilon sneaked a look round the corner, then drew her head back sharply. Arthur was seated three feet from where she was, surrounded by six knights. _God's truth! Why did they have to choose this tavern?_ Avilon asked herself, almost angry. _I am hungry!_

She stole another look at the knights. Avilon only knew Lancelot and Arthur by face and name, and she had no knowledge of whom the other five knights seated around the table in front of her might be. Lancelot was easily distinguishable – his short, curly black hair and mischievous eyes gave him away, and the permanent wolfish dimples either side of his mouth.

Avilon could tell which Arthur was simply by the other knights' behaviour around him. They gave him respect and space; they looked at him with veneration and admiration. Arthur's hair was dark brown, and rather messy. He had a strong jaw and a broken nose. From the look of it, his nose had been broken for a long time.

The next man round was large – huge almost, with massive muscles apparent even under his armour. He had only a scraping of hair, and his face had a permanently sarcastic look. Him and the man next to him – also quite large, with scars on his face and less hair – were laughing at Lancelot's unamused face. The sarcastic one had a baby in his arms, wrapped in brown cloth, and another child by his side, and Avilon had to look twice before she truly believed the sight she was beholding.

Avilon snapped her head back round as another knight looked up straight at the point where her head had been. She waited for a moment, and then took another glance round the corner. The knight with braids who had looked up at her now had his eyes focused on the ceiling. There was something feral in his hawk-like face, the black stubble painting his chin and jawbones, punctuated by two dull pink scars that ran from under his chin to just below his eye. His hair was matted, with braids mixed in, half-hidden in the black mass. Avilon stared at his face, the dark blue tattoos on his cheeks. She recognised them from somewhere.

Something about the way he moved was jagged and fluid at the same time, as if he was forever on his guard. Avilon ran her eyes over him again, and this time something clicked in the back of her mind. This was the man who had been following her – she was sure of it. There was no mistaking those braids, finished with thin pieces of leather. He turned his head again, and Avilon caught a flash of gold as the light glinted in his eyes.

The last knight was young, with bright brown eyes. _He can't be much older than me, _Avilon thought. His hair was much alike to Lancelot's – short, black and very curly. Avilon had no doubt that if the boy grinned impishly, he would be the spitting image of the older knight. He was smiling happily, teasing Lancelot just like the rest of them.

And suddenly, the realisation that Arthur's knights were sitting in front of her seemed miniscule and insignificant compared to the fact that the knights sitting there were discussing one major thing. _Her._


	5. The Training Squares

**Chapter Five: The Training Squares**

Tristan knew he shouldn't have followed her. But something about the black-haired girl had wrenched his insides, and he couldn't stay away from her. He didn't understand it – he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. And he knew he was going to get burnt. And now Lancelot was talking about her as if she belonged to him. It made Tristan quite angry at how Lancelot got as many women as he wanted. Tristan knew the women around the fort were scared of him, but now and again one girl or another would try to get him to bed, even if only to see if he was as feral there as he was on the battlefield. Tristan never loved them, taking only what he needed: relaxation and distraction.

He turned his mind to the girl from the market place. Her black hair - most alike to his own, her bottomless eyes, angular chin. She reminded him so much of... something. Tristan was aggravated by the fact that he couldn't place her face. He _knew_who she was... but at the same time, he knew nothing about her.

_That girl is here somewhere,_Tristan mused. _Somewhere in this building._He almost laughed. If Lancelot knew, he would be searching every cupboard for her in an instant.

Tristan was also put out by the girl – she was dangerous. He had seen the way she handled herself at the market place, the knives, the way she had so easily seen through Lancelot; he had noticed how easily she knew that someone was following her. Tristan knew from experience that you had to be constantly watching your back so as to know immediately when someone was following you.

He shook himself out of his reverie, ignoring the intriguingly angular face that swam in front of his vision. Arthur looked questioningly at him, worried. Tristan gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head and Arthur nodded back. He would tell him later.

_What was a girl like that doing in a place like this?_ Tristan thought. _Unless she has come to assassinate Arthur._But if she was as dangerous as he thought, she would know by now that Arthur was sitting here, and would have tried to kill him already. Tristan was sure she hadn't left yet. He had chosen this seat specifically for the fact that he could clearly see both entrances and the stairway. But what if she had left? No. She couldn't have. _But what if she's gone…?_

Tristan had to be sure. He stood up, making as to go to the bar. None of his friends questioned it; often Tristan left early so as to be alone with his thoughts. Instead of getting a drink, however, he started up the stairs.

Avilon saw him rise, and immediately knew what he was going to do. She looked frantically up the stairs. Her room was at the end of the hall – she'd never get inside before he got to the landing. But she could try.

Tristan heard the scrabbling ahead of him and hastened up them, two at a time. He came up onto the landing and there she was, her back to him, trying to open one of the doors that led to the lodging-rooms. She wore a pale blue tunic, with a white shirt underneath and woollen breeches.

'Why are you sneaking around?' He asked, curious despite of himself. The girl froze, then turned around, fright clear on her face.

'I wasn't… I'm staying here,' she explained. Tristan heard her accent, strong and hidden at the same time.

'Yes, I know.' He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. The Irish girl looked satisfied, as if she had known all along abut him following her and he had just proved it, and then quickly covered her satisfaction up with a look of fake confusion. As she stared at him, he saw something burn in the bottom of her eyes - a flash of recognition. So he wasn't imagining it - he knew the girl from somewhere.

His eyes raked over her black hair, half shining in the sunlight, half in shadow, her angular face and straight nose. He felt strange being around her. It wasn't lust, no, far from it. Tristan was just utterly fascinated – against his better judgement – for this girl was more like himself than anyone he'd ever met.

'Who are you?' Tristan asked. The girl shut her mouth stubbornly. _Well,_Tristan thought, _she understands the power of a name._Annoyed and a little worried, he pulled his eyes from her face and did a quick body-check for secreted knives.

A concealed knife – well hidden – created a small protrusion at her hip. Tristan held out his hand, saying, 'knives, please.' He saw the girl debating, and his fears were confirmed. She was just as dangerous as he had thought.

The girl thrust a hand into her pocket, pulling out a knife of low quality. She purposefully fumbled it and dropped the knife, tip downwards, to the floor, where it lay embedded in the wood. Tristan's mouth twitched at the corners, showing the girl that he hadn't fallen for her trick. The girl bent down and pulled the knife from the wood, laying it carefully in his hand. Tristan gave her a pointed look, and she sighed and bent down again, pulling another knife from her boot. She put that in his hand too, then turned to leave.

'Ah!' Tristan said, catching her arm. 'I want the other ones.' Avilon thought about lying and saying she didn't have more, but it would be pointless. She moved her arms in a sudden gesture and two small daggers slipped from under her sleeves into her palms, the perfect position to be thrown. Tristan took one, then the other, nodded his thanks and turned to leave.

As he climbed down the stairs, tucking the daggers into his clothing, he thought about the girl he had left up on the landing. He needed to figure out why she was here, or his world and everything he knew would come crashing down.

* * *

_Pushed up against the wall, his hands on her thighs, lips at her throat. Limp and weak – powerless to stop the inevitable. He threw her down onto the floor, ripping her dress at the shoulders, baring her chest._

'_No-one will want you now… You're used goods!' he jeered, pushing himself on top of her. She let it happen, writhing feebly on the cold stone floor, moaning with pain. He pinched her skin; bit her neck, punishing her for his own lewdness._

'_That is, if the burns don't scare them away first.' He pushed harder, and she screamed in agony –_

'STOP!' Avilon howled, launching herself out of the bed and into the waking world. Her face and body streamed with sweat, tingling all over. Falling to her knees, breathing heavily, she ripped off her necklace and threw it away in anger. It skittered over the uneven floor, coming to rest by the door.

'Where were you, my brother?' Avilon murmured, head bent. 'When I was dying? Why didn't you save me?'

She stayed in that position, motionless, watching the room gradually lighten and the shadows retreat to their corners, feeling the memories drain away. Her back itched and her knees ached from the hard wooden floor. Slowly, Avilon pushed herself off the floor, and sat down on the bed. She rubbed her back absentmindedly with one hand, her tired eyes with another. Sighing quietly, she picked up the second tin box from atop the chest of drawers and opened it. Inside was a cream – a salve. Avilon pulled off her night-shirt, revealing terrible burns to her upper arms and abdomen. She dipped her fingers into the balm, rubbing it into her afflicted skin.

Sighing again, this time with relief, Avilon shoved the box back in its place and opened the chest of drawers. Avilon wrapped her breast-band round her chest and pulled her undershirt and a clean tunic on over the top. She slid into her riding breeches and boots, then sat again on the bed. She took a small leather pouch from her tin box and started to re-braid her hair with sea-blue beads from within it.

When Avilon was finished, she slipped two knives into her boots, one into the thigh-sheath she wore and another up her sleeve. At the door, she bent down and picked up her necklace, hair swinging down over her shoulders. Sighing, she clipped the chain back round her neck and left the room, locking the door behind her. Avilon went down to the taproom, and ordered some breakfast. Instead of eating it there, Avilon took the bread and cold meat with her, bolting it down as she crossed the town and had finished by the time she got to the orchard of trees that led to the Knights' Quarters. She had just been walking, her subconscious telling her the way. She didn't quite know why she had come here, but her whole body seemed pulled in that direction like a leaf in the wind.

_I'll have to get him on his own, maybe tonight. But you cannot get attached. Quick and clean, just like he said. No, don't think about him. You can be out of here by morning, free as the wind. But what will I do when I'm free? What will I do without the hate that spurs me on, the hate that has brought me here?_

Avilon was so deep in her own personal battle that she didn't notice the curly-haired knight leaning against a tree just off the road. As she walked straight past, he looked offended at not being noticed or acknowledged.

'Hey,' he yelled. 'Hey, lady!' Avilon stopped in her tracks, surprised. Looking round, she caught sight of Lancelot and rolled her eyes.

'I thought I made it clear yesterday that I –' Lancelot cut her off.

'That you were what? Annoyingly mysterious, beautiful, with a lovely voice and a strange gift to verbally dissect and examine each aspect of one's behaviour?' He joked.

'I thought I made it perfectly clear that I was in no way interested in you or your pompous friends.' Lancelot looked hurt at such a solid dismissal, but composed himself as Avilon turned and continued walking.

'But, if you were in no way interested, why would you be coming to our training session?' He asked pointedly. Avilon thought quickly. _A training session? I could see which ones are the best fighters, and possible get my knives back from that knight._

'Well,' Avilon said, turning on the charm. 'You train in your armour?' Lancelot knew immediately what she was implying.

'I train shirtless,' he drawled. 'So do many of the other knights. Because of this… _hot_ weather.'

_God's truth,_Avilon thought, _however does this man get so many women?_

'Perhaps I will come along then – especially if so many of your friends train shirtless.' She smiled at him, joking.

Lancelot and Avilon walked together down the orchard and round the great white building that was the knights' quarters. As she emerged from the shadows and into the sunlight, Avilon looked up to see the training squares.

Four dusty patches of sand stood out from the grass, ringed by rope tied to wooden posts. The trees continued down a few hundred meters, and branched out into a rough circle. Looking hard, Avilon could see people in the cool shadows, escaping from the hot sun.

She left Lancelot's side, seeking cover in the single line of trees. Seated there, with her back against a trunk and all four training squares in her sight, Avilon was in a perfect position to watch and analyse all the knights as they fought. She smiled to herself. This was going to be too easy. The knights obviously had no guards – they were arrogant enough to think they could defend themselves even when they slept. Avilon sobered as four of the knights came into the sunlight, joking between themselves. One pulled off from the group, coming quite close to Avilon and settling down beside the next-tree-but-one to her. He had very blue eyes and fluffy, white-blond hair. She didn't recognise him from the tavern – he must have sustained injury as he was not taking part in the training. He was very young, maybe only seventeen, like Avilon herself.

Turning back to the knights, she saw that the three first had been joined by four newcomers. Scanning each face, Avilon saw which ones she recognised and who hadn't been in the tavern yesterday. For there had only been six knights there and now there were seven. Arthur was easily discernable – his brown hair, stocky figure and superior gait. Lancelot was eyeing her tree as he removed his black shirt, and so was the hawk-like man with tattoos who had stolen her knives yesterday. He too took off his brown tunic, revealing planes of rigid muscle, interspersed with the faded pink lines of well-healed scars, and started to cut up an apple, chewing on them as he picked out a weapon from the pile next to him. As she watched, she felt again that burn of recognition, and her hand unconsciously flew to her necklace again, rubbing the charm between two fingers. _Who is he?_She asked herself. _Why do I know him?_.

Avilon turned away from him, unnerved, and looked towards two more half-naked men, massively muscled, who were already jumping over the rope into one of the training squares. One of them looked towards the trees at the end of the field and waved towards some kids who were playing there.

The boy who looked like Lancelot had removed his undershirt and was also eyeing Avilon's tree with curiosity and – was it? – embarrassment. Avilon laughed bitterly. She was no stranger to a man's anatomy. The final knight had his back to her, the upper half of his body uncovered. Avilon counted on her fingers and knew that this man was the one who had been absent from the tavern yesterday. He turned suddenly and Avilon gaped openly. The stranger had what looked like a triple claw mark down the front of his chest, from his neck to his belly button. The man had very blue eyes and brown-blond braids, not unlike the hawk-mans. He looked up and their eyes met. Avilon snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed. She wanted to look down but couldn't tear her eyes away from the man's gaze. His eyes seemed to look right through her, past the disguise and the composure – the lies – and straight into her soul. Then the moment was over and the knight had turned and picked up a long-sword, thrown his body over the ropes and started bartering the other men for an opponent.

Avilon gasped in breath. Her lungs hurt, like there was pressure on them. 'God's truth,' she whispered. _What just happened?_

The man sitting close to her chuckled, and Avilon looked up at him. He was staring at her, unashamed to be caught watching.

'Why are you laughing at me?' She frowned.

'Gawain's scars have that affect on most people,' the boy smiled back. Hesitantly, Avilon walked to his side and sat next to him, keeping in the shade. The boy smiled again.

'Gareth,' he nodded, introducing himself.

'I… Avilon,' she said quietly, smiling back in spite of herself. Somehow she felt she was able to entrust this man with her name. 'So… how did he get the scars?'

'Oh that? Well, that was me…'


	6. Why Is The Girl Here?

**Chapter Six: Why Is The Girl Here?**

Avilon looked stunned.

'You…? What?' she stammered. Gareth laughed cynically.

'I was much younger – about twelve. I wanted to be like him – he was still a knight then. I was playing with his swords but he saw and tried to take them off me. But he fell onto them and cut... well, you saw what happened. There was so much blood…' he murmured, reminiscing. 'I don't think he really forgave me.'

'Well, I wouldn't have!' Avilon giggled. 'So, who are they all?' she said hesitantly. 'I only know them by face, and I was wondering…?'

'Right, the young man with the mace is Galahad,' Gareth said, pointing to the boy who looked just like Lancelot. Suddenly, Gareth pulled back, wincing. 'My wound… I… ouch.' The colour had drained from his face. For a second, Avilon was scared, then, as the boy's cheeks retained their colour, she calmed and smiled again. _I wonder what his injury is, _she thought, _and how much the others are worried._

'The one with the blonde braids is – I think you said – Gawain?' She asked, and Gareth nodded. 'Lancelot is, of course, the curly-haired grinning one, and Arthur the stockier of the two,' she said, pointing to where the two knights were cooling off in the shade. 'But that's all I know.'

'Okay, so the big ones are Bors and Dagonet. Dagonet is the one with the axe, see? And Bors' children are over there,' he said, gingerly pointing to the circle of trees, where a few children stood watching the knights fight.

_Ah, so it was Bors with the child yesterday,_Avilon thought. She gave him a look-over. He really was huge. And frightening. He used pure brute strength instead of skills or speed. _I wouldn't like to be up against him in a fight,_she decided.

'Then there's Tristan. He has the curved blade and black hair. He's very lonesome – keeps to himself. He's really our tracker and scout, but he's also a very good fighter.'

Tristan? Avilon shivered; the name sparked something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It somehow reverberated through her mind. _Why do I know him?_ Avilon asked herself again, looked up at the hawk-like man who had taken her knives yesterday. His scarred chest was bared, his concentration centred on fighting Gawain. Tristan was perceptive as he fought, seeing everything and moving fluidly. As she watched, Gawain swung his mace hard at Tristan's head and tried to sneak a small knife around his unprotected arm, evidently wanting the fight to be over. But Tristran saw both and deflected both with one soaring arc of his blade. As Tristan pulled Gawain from the ground, Avilon turned her attention to his sword. It was – as Gareth had said – slightly curved, with a nick in the blade. Avilon didn't care to try that weapon, for it looked incredibly heavy.

Bors and Dagonet climbed out of the second square, allowing space for Arthur and Lancelot to fight. Lancelot – still looking towards her tree, Avilon noticed in amusement – jumped the rope heroically and nearly stumbled. Then Arthur – the only man still wearing his shirt – ducked under the rope and the two knights grasped each other's wrists in sincerity and luck.

Avilon sobered, knowing that to kill Arthur she would have to know his strengths and weaknesses.

Lancelot drew his two swords; Arthur unsheathed his one. Arthur's face was calm as Lancelot circled around him. As Lancelot slowed, the older knight closed his eyes, sensing – rather than seeing – his friend's movement. Lancelot teased him, thrusting to the head and stomach at the same time, testing Arthur's barrier. Arthur stopped both attacks with one simple block and returned to his starting position. Lancelot flourished his sword and attacked in earnest, both swords whirling towards his friend and – for the time being – opponent.

Arthur stepped back to deflect the attack without using too much energy, his eyes now wide open. Briefly sensing the sun on her face, Avilon was reminded of how hot it was outside of the shade. Energy couldn't be wasted when the weather was like this.

Unbelievably, Lancelot managed to trap his commander's sword between his own, kicking Arthur's legs out from beneath him. Avilon heard the other knights laughing at Arthur's quick defeat, and felt almost pitiful towards the Roman. Then she shook herself hard. _He murdered your family. Grow up and close your heart!_

Gareth nodded and pushed himself up off the ground, using the tree for support. Avilon immediately jumped up and grabbed his arm, placing it over her shoulder. He sighed and lent his body onto hers.

'Thank you,' he breathed. Avilon could barely walk under his body weight, but didn't show it. _What are you doing?_She screamed inwardly. _After you saw them fighting, you should be running in the opposite direction! Arthur can wait! Run, Avilon!_ But she shoved these thoughts to the back of her mind.

_I can do this. I can look into his eyes and not be afraid. I can hide my hate and my loathing and I can avenge my family._

With every step, Gareth was growing limper. Avilon wouldn't be able to keep him upright much longer. She looked up towards the knights. They were far away – a hundred meters.

'Help!' Avilon yelled. 'Please, someone!' One of the knights looked up and his expression turned to pure shock. He jumped up and sprinted towards her, untucked tunic flowing around his abdomen. Avilon managed another step before Gareth collapsed onto her with a moan. She fell under his weight, jarring her ribs as she hit the ground. The knight stopped at her side, falling to his knees beside the younger man's flaccid body. He looked very scared. Avilon recognised him as Gawain, and as she glanced up into his face, his liquid blue eyes met hers.

'Are you alright?' He asked quickly; he looked again towards the younger knight, evidently in a hurry to get him to the healers.

'Help him...' Avilon choked. Gawain gathered Gareth into his arms, lifting his weight off Avilon's legs. Turning his back on her, Gawain walked quickly to the other knights, who gathered round and left the field with him, leaving one person: Tristan. He gazed down the open plain, watching as Avilon picked herself off the ground. She looked up and met his piercing gaze, looking scared and disorientated. Tristan turned and stalked away, leaving Avilon staring after his retreating back. Suddenly, she felt lonelier than she had ever been.

* * *

What was the girl doing? Why was she here? Tristan couldn't understand it. How come she didn't kill Arthur when he was in the tavern? Or, if she wasn't here to kill him, why was she _here_now? And what was she doing befriending and helping _Gareth?_ Tristan almost swore. She was so frustrating. And he still didn't know her name. Maybe Gareth knew... Tristan decided he would ask him later. First there was something he had to do...

Tristan climbed up the stairs to the top of the wall, his boots making loud noises on the wooden steps. As he reached the top, a gust of wind pulled at his braids; Tristan breathed in the strong wind, allowing his lungs to fill with cold air. He pushed the air out of his mouth, making a small whooshing noise, and leant against on of the wooden guard-posts. The weather here could change in an instant; one minute hot as it could possibly be, the next windy and grey.

Tristan looked out over the wide expanse of trees and open fields and sighed. It was so pretty that sometimes he forgot why he hated this place so much. His muscles loosened and his fingers fell limp as he relaxed. It was a rare thing; he barely ever allowed himself to unwind. As Arthur's one and only scout, he made sure he was on guard and aware every moment.

Up here was the only place he could think. Shuffling through his memories of the past few days, Tristan picked out every one that included the young Irish girl.

_The market place. A black-haired girl steals apples from a lady, skilfully showing both hands as she gave the rest back._Tristan should have known she was dangerous then. _The girl assesses Lancelot quickly, doesn't even think about his looks and definitely doesn't tremble at the knees at the sight of him._Any girl who didn't fall to pieces around the knight had to have either an extremely strong resolve or a pure hatred, fear and mistrust of the male sex. _The girl walks through the town, jumping when a cat leaps from a window frame. She can sense someone following her; her movements are jumpy, erratic._How could she have told so quickly that she was being tracked? She must have been watching her back for a long time to sense that so fast. _In the tavern, Tristan sees a flick of black hair and knows the girl is watching them. He finds her and sees secreted knives around her person: two in her sleeves, one in her boot, and one strapped round her thigh. He suspects she has more._He is certain then that there is more to her than a few knives and an uncanny skill to sense a follower. _She is analyzing the knights fight with expert eyes, and she is strong enough to take most of Gareth's weight – at least twice her own – without losing breath._No average seventeen-year-old girl could be able to do that. She had either had training to withstand pain, or she had suffered it so many times before – a mans weight on her own- that it no longer troubled her. Tristan thoroughly hoped it was neither of them. This girl was too young to have been raped, but then again, she was too young to be an assassin and to have had the training.

Tristran looked up to the sky, and saw a dark shape against the blue. Smiling – a rare thing for the scout – he whistled shrilly. The hawk descended and landed on his outstretched arm, digging her claws in. Tristan stroked her silky feathers and she nipped his fingers. Sighing, he decided to warn the others, just to be on the safe side, and to stay alert around her. Tristan coughed loudly – his chest was getting worse. He climbed back down the stairs, his hawk still on his arm. Setting off for the healers, he saw the girl again, her black hair flashing in the sun, her limitless grey-green eyes staring right at him. She caught his gaze and looked away, fear and worry clear in her expression. _What is she worried about? _Tristan asked himself. _Gareth's injury, or the fact that he was on to her? _He sincerely hoped it was the former. A cold-hearted assassin was worse than any other. He turned his back on her and strode towards the healers. Avilon didn't follow him. She knew he was figuring her out. She had let slip too many clues.

* * *

'Gareth just overdid himself, running around after I specifically told him not to. Honestly, the way you men treat my judgement is purely offensive!' Helsin the healer reprimanded Galahad and Gawain as they stood over Gareth's body.

'I'm fine, honestly.' Gareth mumbled, trying to sit up. He winced as pain flared through his stomach.

'No.' Gawain said vehemently. 'You stay here. And do everything she says, got it?' Gareth nodded sulkily. Then his eyes widened.

'That girl... is she okay? I fell on her, didn't I?' He looked afraid. Galahad laughed, nodding.

'Believe me,' Gawain said, 'she was nearly as worried as I was. But I don't think she appreciated being crushed by your weight. I should go and apologise to her for you. If you want.' Gareth nodded; Galahad and Gawain stood and left him alone with Helsin.

Deep in thought, mostly containing a girl's wide-eyed gaze and soft Irish voice, Gawain walked round a corner straight into Tristran's muscular chest.

'Tristan!' he yelped, surprised.

'I was coming to check on your brother,' Tristan said gruffly.

'He's fine – just overdid himself,' Gawain sighed. 'I do get worried about him.' Tristan put his hand on Gawain's shoulder.

'I know – and he knows it too. Don't blame yourself for this, Gawain. He is young and still learning.' Gawain nodded, eyes downcast.

'I was going to apologise to that girl – the Irish one. And thank her for helping Gareth.' They parted, walking opposite ways.

'Gawain' Tristan said, as if just remembering. Gawain turned. 'Watch your back. That girl could be dangerous.' Gawain nodded again, slightly confused, and set off for the town.

Still embedded in his thoughts, he almost collided with Arthur as well. Upon telling him about his plans to see the girl, Arthur told him to save his troubles, for Lancelot had already left to find her.

Gawain was strangely annoyed with Lancelot for leaving without consulting him. After all, Gareth was Gawain's brother, and he was the one who had taken Gareth from her. With a jolt, Gawain realised he was jealous. Shaking his head, he went to his rooms, pondering his recent epiphany.

_She's just a girl,_ he told himself. _But a beautiful, intriguing, Irish girl at that._And he didn't know her name. _I'll bet anything that _Lancelot _does ,_he thought bitterly.


	7. A Failed Attempt

**Chapter Seven: A Failed Attempt**

Avilon sat at a table near the back of the tavern, staring desolately into her goblet of wine. She felt separated from her very self, like two people trapped in one body. One was her own six-year-old self, from before Evin Larsen, a child. And one was her now, with memories and scars that no seventeen-year-old girl should have. They were fighting inside her skin, both believing their judgement was correct.

The six-year-old child was telling her to run: to run and run and never look back. But the elder Avilon was screaming for her to stay, to kill Arthur and avenge her family.

Avilon was torn, warring herself, unable to make a decision. She was already too immersed in the knights' lives to hurt them by killing their most trusted friend and leader. _God's truth, you knew not to get involved. You KNEW!_ But how could she run from this? It could be the only chance to take vengeance for her family, to fulfil her singular purpose in this life.

Evin had told her it was Arthur who had ordered her family's death. But after seeing him, could she really believe that someone so kind and protective of his men could order the deaths of an innocent family? And after all Evin had done to her, could she believe his word?

The answer was simple: she had to. Without this hatred, this burning emotion that fueled every breath, she would be nothing but a ghost, a memory of the child who had watched her family burn.

_I will not run from this!_ She screamed inwardly. _Arthur deserves to die after what he made me endure!_

Someone sat down opposite her, and Avilon looked up to apologise and then leave. But it was Lancelot. Before she could speak, he said,

'What can cause your brow to furrow so? Are you really that worried for Gareth, or is something else eating your insides?' He actually sounded quite concerned.

'Go away, Lancelot,' Avilon murmured, lowering her eyes back to her wine. She lifted it to her lips and downed it in one gulp.

'Thirsty?' Lancelot joked. He sobered at the look on Avilon's face. 'I still don't know your name, my lady.'

'I see no use you may have for it. What's in a name?' she mumbled dejectedly. 'It is the person, not what you call them, that is the worthier part.'

'But how then will I address you? Shall I call you 'my lady' for the rest of time?' _By tomorrow night you will be calling me whore, or bitch, _she thought. She tried to mould her features into a confident smile.

'Sir Lancelot, I see a name as a sort of power. This way, I hold the power in our relationship, for I know your name, but you don't know mine.' She managed a smug smile, her insides on fire. She had to get out of there.

'Although you may think it, I am not only interested in bedding you. I find you – yourself, your behaviour – mysterious and fascinating. So you see, you can tell me your name, and what is troubling you. Because I am not concerned in who holds the power, and I am not troubled by your opinion of me.' He sat back in his seat, sincerity clear on his face.

Avilon was drawn in despite herself. His bodily behaviour warmed her, thawing her defences, allowing her true feelings to flow out. Tears tracked down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.

'Avilon...' she whispered. _STOP! You're letting him in; you're going to get hurt. Get out of there! _Just as suddenly as her defences had dropped, so they rebuilt themselves.

Avilon stood and dashed away her tears.

'Sir Lancelot,' she nodded curtly. Avilon strode away, across the open square and up the stairs. Pushing past a woman in a roman-style, blue dress, she shoved open her door and threw herself onto the bed.

'Damn, damn, damn!' she swore into the blankets, the noise muffled by the cloth. She was letting people in. She had to stop! Letting people in would lead to only one thing: pain. Avilon knew that from experience.

The tears had long since dried when she finally rose from the bed. There were shadows creeping from the corners towards her. Avilon eyed them with a small amount of fear, then pulled her knives from beneath her pillow and spread them out over the sheets. She picked up the largest, with a snake entwined around the handle, shoved it into her thigh-sheath and put one short knife in each boot.

'I'm going to do this,' she said, strengthening her resolve. Avilon removed everything she owned from the chest of drawers, stuffing it all into Fagan's saddlebags. Then, changing her mind, she pulled out a clean undershirt and put it on, replacing the dirty one she wore, and shoved her tunic into the saddlebag. She needed all the movement she could possibly have to kill the great Artorius. Hauling the saddlebags over her shoulder, Avilon went downstairs, hoping that Lancelot had left. She gave the tavern a once-over, and exited the tavern by the back way; she saddled Fagan in the stables, attaching the saddlebags and reins. At least she would have a quick escape after killing Arthur.

Avilon cast an uncomfortable glance into the shadows, feeling claustrophobic and compressed. She stole the lantern that hung in the stables, holding it before her as she walked through the town. Darkness descended quickly, and the moon was nowhere to be seen; only the light from the lantern kept the night at bay. Avilon shuddered, staring into the encroaching blackness, just metres away. Glimpses of memory came and went with quickening flashes.

_A chink of light lessening and disappearing; reaching out and touching the wall just centimetres from my face. I can't see anything, not even the hand in front my eyes. It's as if I've vanished altogether..._

Avilon threw the memories away, focusing on the next few minutes instead. She would enter the building by the back way, and find Arthur's room. She knew that she might have to enter the other night's rooms to find their generals, but that didn't faze her. _I have killed before, _she reminded herself. _This will be no different. _Avilon tried to make herself believe it, but couldn't.

As she trod quietly up through the orchard, she could see a flickering light in one of the windows – a candle? _I'll try there first, _Avilon thought. She reached the wall of the white building and looked up. The window with the light was four in from the right and on the second floor. Avilon put out the flame in her lantern and opened the door in front of her. The stairs were opposite, so she took off her boots and padded lightly up them, making almost no sound. Avilon came to the landing and looked down the corridor. The walls were bare, and a pale white colour, interspersed with plain wood doors on both sides every few meters, with torches in brackets on the walls between. She pulled her boots on quietly, and took a tentative step. The soles made only soft noises. She would be safe. She unlaced a thin strap of leather from her wrist and pulled back her hair, twining the leather round the thick strands. Getting her hair in her eyes would only hinder her attempt to kill Arthur.

Looking down the corridor, Avilon was glad she had counted the windows, for she had no way of telling whose room was whose. The centre of the hall was like a mirror; one door on the right side was directly opposite one on the left. She started down the corridor, still barefoot, mentally numbering the doors as she passed. One, two, three, four. Counting on the fact that the rooms had only one window each, this room should be the one with the light. She drew her dagger and pushed open the door quietly and slowly. The room was small, with sparse furnishings. A bed, a window, a desk with one candle centrally placed. One glance told Avilon all she needed to know. It was Arthur's room – she had made a lucky guess – and the great general himself was snoring softly, lying on the bed, his sword in one corner.

Thankfully, the Roman was still dressed in breeches and an untucked, mussed shirt. Avilon stepped closer, and a floorboard under her foot creaked. Arthur rolled over in his sleep, but did not wake. Frozen with fright, Avilon didn't realise she had stopped breathing until her lungs protested furiously, and she gasped in breaths, slowing her fast-beating heart. She looked down at Arthur's body, his chest rising every few seconds, his fluttering eyelids. To kill him in his sleep would be a terrible thing to do. Avilon decided and stepped back, ready to kick the bedpost. But then Arthur – very non-asleep – jumped from the bed, pointing a long dagger straight at her. He had been faking!

_God's truth,_Avilon thought. He was good. She had trained herself to know when someone was sleeping, mainly so she could leave Larsen's bed and catch a few moments to herself. But how could Arthur have known she was coming?

As if he had read her mind, Arthur pointed with his free hand at the floor.

'The floorboard,' he said roughly.

Avilon lunged at him, blocking his knife by hitting away his arm, trying to stab her own knife into his chest. He moved so fast she barely even nicked the skin of his arm. And suddenly his knife was at her throat.

'Touché, my lord,' Avilon said, looking down to his abdomen. He followed Avilon's gaze to see her dagger pressing against his stomach. Arthur knew that neither of them could do anything. Any movement would cause Avilon to stab him, and him her if she moved. He relaxed his hand, allowing the dagger at her throat to become limp. Arthur held up his other hand, showing her that he was surrendering.

And then all of a sudden the door was opening and someone was coming into the room.

_Gareth! _Avilon yelled mentally. _This is my only chance and I'm going to take it. Don't get in my way! _Gareth took it all in – the knife at his general's ribs, Avilon's hand holding that self-same dagger, Arthur's hands up in surrender – and began to draw his sword. _Gareth, I'm so sorry! But I have to take this chance! _She pulled the knife from its resting place next to Arthur's ribs, threw it across the room and in the same fluid movement pulled her second knife from her boot. She couldn't watch, and only heard the savage _thud_ as her knife found its mark. She turned back to Arthur as Gareth crumpled to the floor. Arthur looked stunned. As the tears fell down her cheeks Avilon threw herself towards him again, stabbing and slashing with her knife. She felt the knife break through skin and heard Arthur gasp with pain. Avilon looked up into his eyes and saw fear there. She pulled at her knife and went to stab him again, but Arthur grabbed her shoulder and spun her round, and placed his knife against the throbbing artery at her neck.

'Drop it,' he hissed into her ear. Avilon didn't move. Arthur put more pressure on the knife, creating a thin cut on her neck, drawing dark red blood.

'So kill me,' Avilon spat back. The Roman General hesitated, and Avilon took her chance. She elbowed him in the stomach and he fell backwards onto the bed, making a loud noise that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

The commotion woke the rest of the knights, who rushed out of their rooms in various states of undress, weapons in hand. Lying across the threshold to Arthur's room lay Gareth, a dagger up to its hilt in his chest. His eyes were glassy and dim, staring blankly at the ceiling, all memories of the smiling young boy banished.

Gawain cried out, dropping to his knees beside the lifeless body, his trousers soaking up his brother's blood. 'Gareth? Brother, please, wake up!' He shook his brother's shoulders, tears dripping silently from his chin. The other knights watched in respectful silence, shock and distress easily distinguishable on every one of their faces. Gawain closed his brother's eyes and stood, all tears gone, vengeance clear in his frosted blue eyes. He climbed over his brother's body, followed closely by Lancelot and the other knights.

Gawain stepped through Arthur's doorway and looked up to see a shocking sight. Arthur was pointing a knife straight at a girls' chest. Crimson was spreading across the upper left arm of Arthur's shoulder, and his dagger had a smudge of red along the blade, seemingly from the girl in front of him. The girl had her own dagger aimed at the commander, blood trickling from her neck and staining the collar of her shirt.

But what was more shocking was that the girl – who had evidently killed Gawain's brother – was the very same one who could possibly have saved Gareth's life earlier that day.

Lancelot stepped forwards, his mouth a shocked 'O.'

'Avilon?' he gasped loudly.


	8. Horses Are Simple

**Chapter Eight: Horses Are Simple**

_I failed to avenge you, father. Please forgive me. I tried, God knows I tried! Forgive me..._Avilon cried inwardly as the knights stood around Gareth's body stared at her in disbelief. Avilon stepped back from Arthur, knowing that there was no chance now. She wrapped herself in a thick shield of protection, and tried to be scornful and calm about the fact that she would be, no doubt, thrown in a cell and possibly tortured. But she had endured pain at the hands of Evin Larsen, the worst kind. Surely the Sarmations' tortures couldn't be worse than his.

'Avilon?' Lancelot gasped, and he stepped forwards.

'Come on,' she said spitefully. 'I'm waiting to be tied up.' Not one person moved. Suddenly Avilon felt a knife at her throat.

'Drop it,' Tristan said venomously, pulling on her hair. Her scalp burned as Tristan pulled harder on the thick black locks. Avilon complied, wincing. She released the knife; it clanged loudly on the floor and came to rest pointing at Gareth's body.

'So kill me,' Avilon muttered hatefully, repeating the words she had said to Arthur. Tristan pulled the knife from her boot and ripped out the ones from her arms through her shirt. He gave her a quick check over for other knives, then threw her to the ground and she sprawled, her hand close to her dropped knife. Seeing this, Tristan kicked it away hard. It flew, spinning, across the floorboards and hit the wall with a muffled _thunk._

'What are you doing here?' Lancelot asked curtly.

'Oh, me and Arthur were having a bit of a chat about how children shouldn't run with knives,' Avilon murmured sarcastically from the floor. 'What do you think, Sir Arrogance?'

Lancelot was stunned at her cynicism. _She must be very strong to not have lost her nerve yet,_he thought. Avilon pushed herself from the ground, using the bed for support. She turned her malicious glare on Tristan, who stared back, an equally malevolent glower on his own face and hatred plain in his golden eyes.

'Kill her...' Gawain choked. His voice turned harder. 'Avenge Gareth! _Kill_ her!' His hands curled into fists at his sides, their knuckles white from the pressure.

Avilon mocked him, looking afraid and saying, 'yes, kill me, Tristan. Don't you care that Gareth is dead? Or are you just as heartless as you –' She was cut off as Tristan swung a punch at her. His fist caught her on the jawbone, splitting her lip open and sending her smashing against the wall. Avilon straightened, wiping the blood from her chin. She looked up and stared defiantly back at him.

'Just do it,' snarled Gawain, angered by Avilon's taunts and Tristan's behaviour. 'Why isn't she dead already?' He lunged forwards, deciding that he would avenge his brother if no-one else would. But at a nod from Arthur, Bors stepped forwards and wrapped his thick arms around Gawain's torso, restricting his movements. Gawain tried to fight back, but Bors was too strong. Gawain slumped, allowing Bors to calm and comfort him. It was terrible, thought the large knight. Only twenty and yet both brothers taken within the space of a few short years.

Avilon laughed scornfully at Gawain, although her insides were being torn apart. To see the man suffer so, and by her doing, was unbearable.

'Tie her up,' Arthur snapped at Tristan, massaging his temples and falling into the chair. Dagonet poked at his arm, and the commander winced as pain shot through his shoulder. Dagonet removed his fingers from the wound and said, 'I'm sure you'll survive.'

Tristan ripped a length of his shirt, and it was Avilon's turn to wince at the horrible screeching sound it made. She offered her wrists to him as though bored, and sighed when the scout tied the cloth round them.

'So, what's next?' Avilon asked excitedly. 'Throw me in a cell? Torture?' Galahad shot her a disgusted look, and she sent one back.

Arthur, however, ignored the girl and instead turned to Lancelot.

'We have to find out who she works for so as to warn the other commanders. Maybe we can foresee and prevent other assassination attempts. If we don't know who is behind this, more commanders could die.' Avilon laughed quietly.

'You have something to say, assassin?' Tristan asked threateningly. Avilon laughed again, but kept her mouth shut. Tristan grew angry and looked to punch her again. She took a step back, wary, then smirked, saying, 'Well, it will be hard, seeing as I came here of my own volition.' She smirked again as Tristran's hands balled into fists; Avilon saw she had pushed him to the brink.

'Of course you did,' Arthur said cynically. 'No assassin works alone.'

'No, they don't.' Avilon agreed. Arthur looked momentarily confused.

'Ah, so you're saying that you aren't an assassin?' In response, Avilon leant her head back and revealed the creamy white skin of her throat. There was no assassins' collar, and no marks to show there ever had been. 'So why try to assassinate me? I have done no wrongs to you, or any of the Irish people. What could have made you come here?' Avilon's anger flared at his calm exterior.

'No wrongs? You have murdered children, destroyed families, left innocents to suffer life's cruelties alone. No wrongs?' Avilon spat on the floor. 'You're all the same, you Romans. You think only your own lives matter and that everyone else should just bow at your feet. We'll I'm done _bowing._' She had tried to inject as much spite as she could into her voice, and the hurt on Arthur's face gave proof to the fact that she had succeeded.

'Take her away,' he whispered. 'Get her _out of here!_' Tristan shoved Avilon towards Galahad, who grasped her arm in a vice-like grip and led her away down the corridor. As the light from Arthur's room faded, Galahad grabbed a torch from the wall and held it in front of him. Avilon walked beside him with tears rolling silently from her cheeks. _The bastard,_she thought. _No wrongs...? BASTARD._

Galahad threw her into holding cell and locked the barred door. As he made to leave, Avilon – who had spent the last handful of minutes working her hands from their bindings – shot one hand through the bars and grabbed his arm.

'Please,' she whispered, 'leave the light.' Galahad, hearing the terrified tone in her voice, looked pitying for a few seconds, then his face hardened as he realised it was probably just a manipulative game. He spat on the floor and walked out of the holding cells. 'No...' Avilon cried as the light receded. 'No, please! Leave the light...?' her voice faded to nothing as the orange flickers diminished and then were gone.

Pitch-black darkness pressed in from all sides, a thick black fog that pushed tendrils of despair intro her mind. Avilon clutched at her head, moaning as the memories overflowed and spilled out onto the floor.

'No... no...' she whimpered, backing into the corner. She curled up in the corner, her body cold against the floor and wall, shuddering with terror at the visions in front of her eyes.

'_Get in, whore,' Evin Larsen spat at me. He threw me to the floor and kicked my stomach._

'_No, I'm not going back in! Don't put me in there! Please...' He shoved his face so close to mine we were almost touching._

'_Get _IN,' _Evin hissed threateningly, grabbing my arm and twisting the flesh in a vicious pinch. He snarled down at me, and said in a ferocious whisper,_

'_You belong to me, bitch. You belong to me, so do what I say!' Evin pulled on my arm, and I climbed to my feet, cowering away from his punches. 'You deserve this after that little stunt you pulled,' he said, shoving me through the door and into the tiny room beyond. It had no windows, and the only light came from the rapidly closing door._

'_No!' I wailed, scrabbling up and clawing at the door. It snapped shut and I heard the bolt being drawn across._

'_Let me out, you bastard!' I couldn't see anything, not the hands in front of my face nor the walls inches away. The room was so dark that when I closed my eyes it made no difference. I curled up on the ground, silence descending over me like a thick blanket that did nothing to keep out the cold._

_It wont be long, I told myself. It wont be long. Night slipped into day and made no difference to the amount of light in the room. Time passed slowly, or quickly. I had no way of telling._

_I would just sleep, and wait for the door to open. Not long now, I told myself._

* * *

No–one in the building slept much that night. Arthur sat in his room, elbows on knees, head in hands.

Gawain mourned his brother, kneeling in a corner, praying to his Gods.

Bors, unusually incapable to sleep without his children next to him, polished his broad sword with a flat stone. His mind was unable to understand the events that had passed in the last few hours.

Avilon had nightmares, dipping in and out of sleep at irregular intervals, immersed in her memories.

Lancelot, like Arthur, sat in his room alone until the early morning, thinking of the girl who was downstairs in the holding cells. She was so different to the child he had watch cry in the tavern yesterday.

Galahad, like all the other knights, thought upon the girl downstairs. His mind lingered on her terrified voice, echoing in the darkness. _Please, leave the light._ Had it been a game? Was she truly that afraid?

Dagonet sat outside his room, staring at the bloodstains on the floor. _How can one girl create such havoc? And kill an innocent boy of seventeen?_ He asked himself. _For the girl could only be seventeen too – how could she be so cold hearted at so young an age? And she had been so angry with Arthur. What could have caused her such agony that she had to murder an infantile boy just to have a chance at killing the commander? What hate had led her to this?_

Outside, watching the sunrise, Tristan stood with his hawk, his eyes flickering as they yearned for sleep. _I knew it,_he told himself. _There was something about her. I could have stopped this. I should have warned Arthur, should have made him use a guard._He reprimanded himself, balling up his guilt and shoving it from his body. He had to turn his mind to the fact that the girl was now in a cell, and waiting to be dealt with.

Tristan stroked his hawks' feathers softly, crooning to the bird in dulcet tones. 'What shall we do, eh?' He asked her. 'What shall we do?'

He wasn't heartless as many of the girls in the town and fort thought. He just had different ways of dealing with pain, guilt... loss. In Tristan's mind, Gareth was just gone. Like so many others, the boy had simply vanished from Tristan's life, like his mother, father, sister… his fellow knights, men who he held in high esteem. Vengeance was a dangerous emotion, just like anger. Too much and you started to get reckless. Tristan had never even thought about avenging his family. He barely even remembered his sister's name. Who was he to avenge a family that he had forgotten?

Thinking on this, Tristan's mind skipped back to the day he left. His sister, crying out to him, her shrill voice piercing the cold silence.

'Tris… Tris!' She had given him the necklace he was now rubbing between two fingers. A hawk, made of silver. They had found the pair of them in a river just away from their village, floating side-by-side in the icy waters.

'I'll wear it forever, Tris,' she had promised. 'Until you come back. Then we can be together again.' Tristan remembered the fear, cold and heavy in his stomach. _I may never see you again. How can I tell you, dear sister?_He saw her face in front of him even now, eyes burning fiercely behind her dark hair.

Tristan shook his head, braids whipping his cheeks, trying to rid himself of the memories. _Just remembering her will not bring her back. She is dead, and there is nothing you can do._The hawk on Tristan's arm nipped at his fingers impatiently.

'So fly,' he murmured to her, and she launched herself from his arm. Tristan watched as the circling black dot of his bird became fainter and fainter against the reddening sky. Sunrise. Tendrils of cloud thickened as he watched and blurred the sky. The colours turned from burning red to purple, and then to pure blue. It was going to be a very warm day.

Tristan turned and trained his eyes on the building where his fellow knights slept peacefully. A twist of jealousy stirred in his stomach. The Hyrci knight couldn't remember the last time he had slept. This girl had come here, and within the space of two short days, had thoroughly picked apart Tristan's life. God's truth, her appearance had caused him to think of his family! Tristan hadn't thought of them for years… so why her, and why now?

Shaking his head again, Tristan pulled an apple from his tunic pocket. Taking a large bite, he headed towards the stables. Jols had never understood Tristan's mare, Maura, and she knew it; Maura didn't let the stable master anywhere near her, and Jols had got some very nasty bruises from trying. It was down to Tristan to look after his horse, but he would have been in the stables every day even if this task hadn't fallen onto his welcoming shoulders. Tristan conversed with his horse as if she were human, and they understood each other perfectly. On the battlefield, Tristan need only whisper a word and Maura would panic, creating a diversion; lay down, creating cover; or run, clearing the way for Tristan's well-aimed arrows.

Behind him, the sun fully separated from the horizon; Tristan's shadow was carved into the wood of the stable wall. Sparing only a glance at the clear outline of his body, the scout shoved through the double doors and into the large, square-shaped stables. Maura whinnied at the sight of him, calming as soon as his thin-fingered, calloused hands touched her dappled grey coat.

'Shhh, girl. Hush…' Tristan soothed her with incomprehensible sounds, leaning into Maura's mane and breathing in her scent. The musty smell of her coat instilled a peace in Tristan's mind. Maura snorted and bent her head towards the feed-bag that was nailed to the stall's wall. Tristan stepped back from his horse and stared at her, taking bites from his apple.

Why couldn't humans be horses? Simple, relaxed, straightforward. Understandable. Why did humans have to lie on their beds of deceit and greed, polluting the world with their arrogance?

_Why is my life like this?_


	9. This Is Only The Beginning

**Chapter Nine: This Is Only The Beginning**

The girl was huddled against the far wall, the sleeves of her undershirt ripped, dirty and wet from tears. She flinched in her sleep, twitching uncontrollably, her face a mask of pain. Her hands clenched and unclenched, the skin white and bruised. Her knuckles were red, the skin of her fingers ragged and torn, as if she had been tearing at the walls. Her hair was matted, gold and blue flashes visible under the black mass. The girl had a purpling bruise on her swollen jaw, and there was crusted dry blood around one corner of her mouth. She looked as if she had been beaten, thrown around and then beaten again.

Arthur couldn't quite keep the pity from his eyes as he stared at the tormented child before him. She looked Sarmation, but spoke with an Irish accent. She truly was a mystery.

Again, the girl writhed in her sleep, pure fear flashing across her once beautiful features. Someone behind Arthur let out a woosh of breath, as if it had been held in for a long time.

'Godsdammit, Arthur! Can you not see her pain? Wake her; spare her! The terror is in her dreams, the real world can do no more damage than her nightmares – can you not see it?' Lancelot couldn't hold his tongue any longer. Arthur, obviously wanting too to put the girl out of her misery, crossed the dim cell and knelt beside her limp body. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, vehement but also gentle. The girl's eyes flickered open, and she let out a gasp and pushed the Roman general away from her, scrabbling backwards until the wall halted her. The look in her eyes was mad, like a horse in pain. The knights stared down at the girl, hesitance and compassion clear in their stances. The girl's eyes dimmed and the madness was replaced with anger.

'Get out! Get away from me!' She spat at Arthur, who took a step back, shocked at the sudden change in the girl's bodily behaviour and facial expression.

'Avilon.' Arthur stated, rather than asked. 'We have some questions. You either answer them, or I bring Tristan down here.' The threat was clear in his voice. Avilon stared, disgusted, up at him, then pushed herself up, using the wall for support. Arthur took a step back, wary. Finally free of her nightmare, Avilon's back straightened and she raised her head, staring straight past Arthur at the wall behind him.

'We know someone sent you, assassin,' Bors said curtly, ready to launch into a hissing rage. Gareth's death had affected Bors more than some of the other knights; he had children of his own and had developed a liking for the seventeen year old boy. Only Arthur raising his hand stopped him. It wasn't Bors' place to tirade against the girl. The knights didn't know yet why she had tried to kill Arthur, or how far she would go to kill him. After all, she had already murdered one knight…

Avilon snorted, her façade of strength and fearlessness back in place. She still had her eyes fixed on the wall just above and behind Arthur's right shoulder, as if she could see through the stone and was watching the most interesting scene unfold before her eyes.

'Who sent you?' Arthur asked the girl. She shook her head slightly. 'Who sent you?' he repeated, having to force his voice to stay low and calm. And still the girl ignored him. All the knights tried to get her to talk, Bors once again having to control his rage, Lancelot unable to rid his mind of the girl in the tavern, crying silently, Dagonet trying to coax her out from behind her defences.

But nothing could get the Avilon to speak, or even deign the knights with a glare. She just stared, blank-faced, at the cold stone wall, imagining patterns in the rough surface. She leant against the wall and traced swirling designs onto the damp rock with her elegant fingers. She even tried to clean the blood from her face, spitting on her sleeve and rubbing at her chin.

After an hour of endless questions and reverberating silence, Arthur stormed from the cell, followed by Dagonet and Bors, jaded and angered by the girl's resistance. Lancelot stared at Avilon for a solid five minutes, his eyes never once leaving her face. He could see by the way her hands shook that she was having trouble standing up. When was the last time she had eaten? He thought. Just as he was about to leave, Avilon's grey-brown eyes left the wall for a fraction of a second and roamed the Sarmation knight's face. Lancelot met her glance, and she dropped her eyes, hands curling into fists. Lancelot sighed and turned from her, locking the cell door behind him, unaware of the girl's long white fingers reaching out through the bars.

Avilon stepped back from the door, knowing that it was only the beginning. After all, the sea never stopped crashing against the cliffs, wave upon wave breaking down the soil and dragging it into the water's depths. Just like the sea, these knights wouldn't stop until Avilon had either died from their tortures or had lied. They would never believe her if she told them her story. She would have to lie, or sustain her will long enough to not talk until she died. Avilon swayed, unsteady. When the second wave came, it would be more terrible and painful than anything Larsen had done to her.

She was not disappointed. Tristan kicked open the cell door a minute later and crossed the cell, dragging Avilon up by her hair. Arthur was behind him, looking angry but also pitying at the obvious pain on the girl's face.

'Let go, you bastard! Get off!' Avilon screamed. She tried to push him away, slapping at the hand on her hair. Tristan backhanded her, his face void of emotion. Blood trickled down the girl's chin. She licked her lip and spat at Tristan. He dropped her to the ground and wiped his face on his tunic sleeve. Arthur looked away from the girl, cowering on the floor, a red mark already visible on her cheek.

'You either talk, or I leave you here with Tristan,' he threatened, still unable to look at the girl. She looked so unprotected, so alone, so utterly terrified and yet so strong, so unbreakable.

'I have nothing to say, Artorius Castus.' She injected such venom into her voice that Arthur stepped back, shocked. Avilon turned away from him, away from Tristan, turning her back on the world.

Arthur kept asking, repeating his questions. Over and over, again and again.

'Who sent you? Who are you? Why are you here?'

After a few minutes, Tristan took out an apple and a long bone-handled knife. He sliced pieces of the fruit, cutting cleanly through the skin and flesh. He stood back and watched as Arthur asked again and again. Asking was the wrong way to deal with this assassin. She wasn't going to talk. Arthur should have let Tristan take over already. The only thing these people understood was violence. Tristan shook his head and threw his apple core to the ground.

'Arthur.' He said quietly. Arthur looked at the solidly silent girl, then to Tristan, then back to the girl. He nodded reluctantly.

Tristan grabbed Avilon's arm roughly, bruising the white flesh. He punched her twice in the stomach. Avilon coughed and spat out some blood. It dripped from her lips and chin. She spat again and blood flecked Tristan's cheek.

'I wont tell you anything, scout. You're behaviour only confirms my beliefs about you being a soulless, heartless _bastard!'_Tristan punched her again and she was flung into the wall with the force of it. Coughing, Avilon looked up defiantly. Tristan punched her once more and she fell on to her hands and knees.

'Keep it up, scout. I can go for hours. I have done before,' she muttered contemptuously. The scout kneed Avilon in the stomach and she collapsed completely. Tristan reached down and picked her up by her hair.

'Tristan.' Arthur put a hand on his scout's shoulder, and Tristan dropped the girl to the floor. Arthur gave on last look towards the girl on the floor. 'Come on. We can try again tomorrow.' As they left, Avilon looked up towards their receding backs.

'What...' Avilon whispered, breathless. 'You... finished... already? No more... fun?' She gasped in air, hyperventilating. The Roman general gave her another glance, then slammed shut the cell door.

The next day, the knights were back in Avilon's cell. Dagonet checked over Avilon's face and stomach, having to use his great strength when she didn't co-operate. After the quick check-over, he stood back from her shivering body and whispered to Arthur,

'She has a slight fever and there is a green tinge to the lacerations on her stomach. If we don't get her out, the wounds might get infected.' He left quickly after, not wishing to watch Tristan's violence.

'Avilon,' Arthur scowled down at her.

'That's not my name,' she said, her voice shaking.

'What are you called then, assassin?' Tristan snapped. Avilon looked away, towards Gawain. His eyes were red and bloodshot. It hurt Avilon to see the pain she had inflicted on him. But Gareth had just been a fellow knight, a friend. Avilon had lost her family, her entire life. She had suffered unbearable amounts, so why should these knights, these men who were loyal to the man who murdered Avilon's family, go unpunished?

'If you don't answer our questions, I will leave you and Tristan alone again.' Arthur threatened.

'You think that scares me, Artorius? You think you or your pathetic knights can do more damage to me? But of course, anyone who is not Roman is below you. Arthur Castus. Half Roman, half human. The famous Briton who kills his own _people._' Avilon spat on the ground.

'And yet you killed a child just for a chance to murder me? Gawain's brother?' Avilon looked up, suddenly scared.

'Brother? Not brother-in-arms? Brother...?' A tear dripped from her chin as Lancelot nodded viciously. 'I didn't know. I thought... I didn't know!' she repeated, shaking her head violently. But then she seemed to catch herself, and her eyes of steel returned. 'I have also lost family, and a brother. Yet you do not see me crying like a pitiable girl-child,' she spat at Gawain. He lunged towards her, vengeance clear in his eyes, but Bors pulled him back, out of the cell.

Arthur rubbed his tired eyes with his palms. He knew he shouldn't have let Gawain come. He was too distraught over his brother's death. He couldn't cope with facing his brother's murderer.

'Get him out of here,' he murmured to Galahad, and the Sarmation left with Bors and Gawain, leaving Tristan, Lancelot and Arthur staring at the girl in front of them. The knowledge that Gawain was so upset about the loss of his brother hurt Avilon. Not one person knew who she was, her family were all dead... who would mourn her when she died? That knowledge hurt her more than anything the knights could ever do.

'So Lancelot, are you not intent on killing me too? It seems that Tristan would, Arthur wouldn't hold him back and Gawain would merely watch or possibly join in. Are you not itching to kill me as well? It would be so easy...' She spread her arms wide and stared at him hungrily.

'How can you welcome death so?' Lancelot whispered, surprised at her obvious longing for his sword.

'I've been living in this hell for so long, death would be a release. Also, I'd never have to look at your ugly face again.' Lancelot snorted in disbelief.

'_Excuse_me?'

Avilon laughed out loud at the look on Lancelot's face. Tristan's lip curled too: the knight needed a kick to his ego. Then he shook his head. The girl's tricks were working on Lancelot, but they wouldn't work on him.

'If you don't talk, I _will_hurt you. And I promise you, I will also enjoy it,' he bared his teeth in a feral grin. Avilon didn't flinch; she didn't even blink.

'So hurt me,' she said simply. But fear curled in her belly, a dark weight that reached her heart and squeezed. _Stop being so weak! Evin did worse things..._ her thoughts rebounded around her mind.

'So be it,' murmured Tristan. Followed by Lancelot and Arthur, he stalked from the room.

Avilon leant her head against the wall, clenching and unclenching her hands. She allowed the fear to overcome her, and screamed into the stone. She screamed and screamed until she was spent. Then, she pushed herself away from the wall and hurled her body at it again and again, bruising her ribs, arms, her face. Then, finally, she fell to the floor, and wept.

Avilon wept for the loss of her family, the years of pain with Evin, her aching body. She wept because she was alone, she wept because she was alive, she wept because of the memories. And finally, Avilon wept for Gawain, and the loss of his brother. Time passed slowly and the tears stopped flowing and dried on her cheeks. She looked towards the door then back at her bleeding hands.

'God, give me strength, for I am truly at your mercy. Spare my life, condemn me, I care not. Please, reveal to me the path I should take, for I am lost upon an everlasting sea,' she whispered, bowing her head in prayer.

'Forgive me...'


	10. She Is Just A Girl

**Chapter Ten: She Is Just A Girl**

The next morning, Tristan was back, dragging Avilon out of dreams by her hair. She was towed out of the cell and into the corridor, yelling at Tristan.

'Bastard, let go! Bastard!'

He threw her down, and she collapsed against the wall. Galahad was behind Tristan, eyeing Avilon with disgust and anger.

'Get up!' Tristan hissed. 'Now!' Avilon glared at him and pushed herself up, using the wall for support.

'I'm unarmed!' she shouted. 'You don't have to use such violence!' Avilon spat at him again, and earned a backhanded slap across the face. Tristan took Avilon's upper arm in a vice-like grip and stormed down the corridor, half-dragging her, followed closely by Galahad. He pushed her through a doorway, into an almost completely bare room.

The walls were white, plain. Light bled into the room through an east-facing window with no glass. In one corner, a hook on a chain was hanging from the ceiling. Avilon knew that if she were to stretch her arms up, she would only just be able to just reach the hook. In the centre of the plain room, a roman-style, backless chair stood; it was starkly cheery against the woeful surroundings, with a bright red seat and curved, beech wood legs.

As she was thrown into the chair by Tristan's strong arms, Avilon looked around again to see two knights standing in the far corner.

'Ah, Lancelot. How lovely it is to see you again,' Avilon smirked. 'Oh, and our brave general. Really Artorius, I am graced with your presence.' Tristan backhanded her again for insolence.

'Tristan.' Arthur warned him. Tristan stepped back from the cowering girl, his face – as ever – emotionless.

'You really aren't very creative with your methods, are you, Tristan?' Avilon questioned. A wolfish smiled played around the scout's lips.

'Oh, I don't want to scare you to death... yet.' He noticed, with appreciation, a small glimmer of fear in the girl's eyes. Then it was gone.

'You only need answer our questions, or I will let Tristan...' he search for a word other than 'torture.'

'Interrogate?' Avilon supplied helpfully, smiling. Arthur frowned at her.

'What's your name?' he demanded.

'Avilon,' she replied, disdain dripping from her voice.

'You already told us that wasn't your name.' Lancelot said quietly.

'Maybe I lied,' Avilon said matter-of-factly. Tristan smacked her again. 'Would you desist?' she yelled at him, spitting blood onto the floor and wiping it from her bottom lip.

The pain barely registered in her mind. She had had worse. Much worse. More than anything these knights could do to her.

'Bastard,' she swore at him.

'I will enjoy this. The longer you persist with your silence, the more fun I will have.' The scout's eyes glittered with unveiled menace.

'Well then, Sir Tristan. _Whatever_ would happen if you were to be deprived of your amusement?'

'Who sent you, Avilon?' Arthur asked.

'No-one! I've told you. I came for me, not for someone else!'

'So why are you here?' Arthur persisted.

'To kill you, my lord,' Avilon replied, as if it was blindingly obvious.

'Are you truly willing to die protecting a man who forced you to kill?' Lancelot asked, his voice almost gentle.

'Look, you arrogant fool. No-one ordered me here! Why would I lie? Surely if someone had forced me, I would be giving up their name in an instant?' Lancelot looked pained at her insult, but could see the sense in what she said.

'Fine.' Arthur stepped back from the girl's slender body, shaking his head. 'Tristan, she's yours.'

Lancelot followed him from the room, leaving the door wide open. Tristan looked down at the dark-haired girl seated before him. It was silent, Galahad's heavy breathing the only noise in the room. Tristan stared and stared at Avilon, until finally she looked up. And there it was again, a flicker of fear in her eyes. She was frightened.

_Finally,_ thought Tristan.

He bent down and wound his hands into her hair. Her scalp burned, but Avilon let no pain contort her features. She looked up into Tristan's eyes and smiled grimly. So be it,Tristan thought. He slapped her twice around the face, not holding back at all. Avilon gasped as she was thrown from the seat. She crawled away from Tristan, clutching at her head. Tristan grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her upright. He glared at the girl, then swiftly dropped her again as her teeth sunk into his forearm.

His face remained impassive as he kicked her in the stomach; Avilon cried out in pain. Tristan heaved her back into the chair, where she sat looking straight ahead. Tristan looked into her eyes: the flame of defiance that had burned so bright earlier was gone. The girl stared up at him with a vacant, blank look in her eyes.

'I can do this for weeks, woman. But neither of us are getting any younger. Talk.' Avilon looked away, down at the floor; blood dripped from her lip onto the pale stones.

'Do what you want,' she said bleakly. 'I really don't care.' Tristan licked his top lip and shook his head. He let go of the girl's hair and stepped away from her.

'Galahad, take her back to the cell.'

'What? She hasn't said anything! You can't have finished!' Galahad spluttered in protestation.

'Look, she's gone dead.' Tristan snapped his fingers in front of the girl's face to prove his point. Avilon didn't even blink. 'She wont talk now. We can try again tomorrow. She's obviously faced torture before.'

Galahad took Avilon back to her cell and dumped her in one corner. As he left, closing the door surprisingly quietly behind him, he heard the girl gasping for breath. He shook his head and walked back towards the fortress hall, followed by the girl's echoing sobs.

* * *

The fortress hall was square, with a door set in the centre of each wall. Roman-style statues of ancient Gods and Goddesses watched over all who entered the room. The large, round table was of polished mahogany, with carved wooden chairs tucked beneath. A fire, the main light source of the room, was encaged in a briar at its centre. Spaced evenly along the walls were torches held in brackets; they gave out wide circles of orange light, casting dark blue-black shadows onto the walls and floor. The room, however fervently lit, was still dim; the faces of the knights sat around the circular table were shadowed and sallow in the muted light. The room, like many others in the building, had no windows, and therefore had to be lit by fire.

Lancelot was staring so deeply into the flames of the briar he could almost see past the flickering tongues of orange, and straight into Bors' face; the larger knight sighed and cast a long glance towards Tristan.

'Devices working?' he asked bitterly.

'No,' Tristan shook his head. 'She wont say a word.'

'Look, isn't there some other way?' Galahad looked round at his fellow knights, searching for any signs of pity. 'She's barely a girl.'

'She's not a girl, Galahad,' Gawain growled, his eyes bright. 'She's an assassin, one who murdered my brother and nearly killed Arthur. She's no girl!' he continued, as Galahad looked affronted. 'I say we just kill her and avenge Gareth!'

'No,' Arthur shouted over the rising argument. 'We will not kill her. She could be valuable. If these attacks are aimed at Roman generals in particular, it could mean chaos all over Britain and Rome. She has to talk.' He stood up. 'I'm as hesitant as you, Galahad, but we can't let this slide. Tristan, visit her again tomorrow. Dagonet, take Gawain and see what you can do about her wounds.' Dagonet nodded and swiftly stood, beckoning to Gawain; the younger knight stood, blonde-brown dreadlocks pouring down his back, and followed the healer from the hall.

'Where are we going?' asked Gawain, slightly confused as Dagonet turned towards the kitchens.

'Everyone needs to eat, Gawain,' Dagonet explained in his gentle, quiet voice. 'Even assassins.' Gawain shook his head, but followed his friend to the kitchens. Dagonet filled a pitcher with water from the trough while Gawain bundled a loaf of bread up in a warm cloth, and then he followed Dagonet out and towards the holding cells.

'So you believe she's an assassin?' he asked Dagonet as they walked in a companionable silence. Dagonet looked down at the top of Gawain's head, almost foot below his own.

'Do you?' he countered. Gawain was suddenly very interested in the floor, and the walls: anything that wasn't his blood brother's teasing, yet slightly accusatory face.

'I don't know...' Gawain muttered. 'When I saw Gareth,' he gulped, 'dead, I wanted to kill her. But now... Galahad is right - she's just a girl, Dag.' He whispered the last few words, trying to make sense of his feelings.

'Aye,' nodded Dagonet. 'I understand, lad.' They descended the stone steps into the holding cells; the temperature dropped sharply and the steady drip, drip of water resounded from the high ceiling.

Gawain unlocked holding cell five – the only occupied one – and held the door for Dagonet.

Dagonet nearly dropped the pitcher when he saw Avilon's face. Her skin was pale and yellow, but flushed on her cheeks. The girl's eyelids and sockets were stained a deep purple, and there was bruising evident over her whole face. Desiccated blood around her chin and lips stood out from the sallow skin, and more red had spread in a blossoming flower over her once-blue tunic. Avilon croaked wretchedly as the knights entered her cell, trying to open her eyes.

Dagonet knelt beside her, lifting her head and helping her upright. He cupped water in his hands and cleaned the blood from her chin. The watered-down liquid dripped onto her tunic, staining it ever further from its original colour. Avilon coughed as Dagonet held the pitcher to her lips, trying feebly to push him away.

'You need to drink. You're dehydrated, and that could speed up the infections in your cuts. If you don't do as I say, you may die.'

Avilon mumbled something that sounded awfully like 'so what,' but drank more water from the pitcher.

'Gawain, I need the cloth,' Dagonet demanded, fully initiated into his role as healer. Gawain unwrapped the bread and handed the cloth to his friend, glancing worriedly at the girl who had slumped forwards, leaning her head on Dagonet's arm. Dipping the cloth in the pitcher, Dagonet carefully lifted up the girl's head and cleaned the rest of the blood from her chin and from the lacerations by her right eye.

His patient was still having trouble opening her eyes, so Dagonet tore of a hunk of bread and put it into her hands. The girl, obviously starving, crammed the bread into her mouth, caring little about appearances. She winced as she chewed on the good-quality starch product, her jawbone scraping against her skull painfully. As she ate, tears overflowed from her eyes and dripped down her bruised cheeks.

'What has the scout done to you?' Dagonet asked her, shaking his head. That man goes too far, the normally gentle knight thought angrily. `He's cracked two of her ribs! No girl should go through this... Dagonet decided to not let Tristan anywhere near the girl until she had properly healed, and even then he would protect her from the worst of Tristan's beatings.

'I have to remove your shirt, to see your ribs properly,' he explained to the girl. The girl looked afraid and crossed her arms over her chest protectively. 'I will not hurt you,' Dagonet said firmly, tugging lightly on her shirt. The girl finally uncrossed her arms, wincing again at the stabbing pain in her ribs. Dagonet pulled the shirt over her head, and was relieved to see she was wearing a breast-band that covered her upper chest. He turned his gaze to her abdomen and his eyes widened in shock. Fierce burns, red and puckered, spread across her stomach and disappeared under her breast-band. A yellowing bruise, purple at the edges, had blossomed down one side of her ribcage, and several open cuts where visible just below, where the skin had burst from pressure.

'I shall kill him!' growled Gawain from behind Dagonet. Avilon yelped in horror as she realised someone else was there and feebly tried to cover her body up. Gawain looked furious at the extent of Avilon's wounds, but his cheeks flushed as he realised just how naked the girl was. He turned around swiftly, breathing heavily. 'I apologise, sorry...' he said pathetically. Dagonet snorted quietly and turned back to the girl, whose cheeks were an even heavier shade of red now.

'You need to turn over; I need to see your back, just to check for more injuries,' he spoke softly, as if calming a startled horse. The girl's eyes widened and her nostrils flared. She used her last resources of strength to push herself away from the large knight, scared as a rabbit staring into the wolf's open mouth.

'Please,' she half-whispered, half-croaked, dry lips cracking. 'Don't.' Dagonet looked slightly bemused, but grasped the girl's thin wrists with a firm hand.

'I have to see the extent of your injuries. If your ribs are broken you will be in lots of trouble. I haveto see your back,' he elaborated, trying to impress upon her the necessity of his knowing her injuries. Avilon stared up at him with glazed eyes, terrified of something unknown to the knight.

Then she tore her gaze away from his blue eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. She shifted her body and, with the help of his strong arms, turned her back on the two knights.

Even Dagonet couldn't stifle his gasp; Avilon hung her head in shame. Recovering from his momentary lapse in decorum, Dagonet leant forwards and inspected the girl's back closely.

Pink, puckered scars crossed the girl's back, cutting the flesh into white diamonds. They were easily discernible as whip marks.

'Did Tristan – ?' Gawain gasped.

'No,' Dagonet said definitely. 'These are scars, Gawain, not cuts. Some are years old.' He turned his attention to the shivering girl. 'Who did this to you, child? Who tortured you in such a way?' Avilon clenched her jaw, stubborn to the end.

Dagonet stood up from her shaking form, and stalked out of the cell, calling over his shoulder, 'I have to tell Arthur. We have to get her out of here or she'll be dead by tomorrow.'


	11. Eight Days

**Chapter Eleven: Eight Days**

Gawain looked down at the girl who was hastily pulling on her undershirt. Her jaw was still clenched against the agony, and as she tried to get her left arm through the sleeve, she let out a hiss of pain. Gawain hurriedly dropped to her side and helped her dress. She shuffled away from him, wary.

As quickly as he had dropped to the floor, he stood and took a step back, hands held out as a peace signal. He tore another hunk of bread from the loaf by his feet and sat down against the wall, chewing thoughtfully.

'Can I have some?' A small, cracked voice came from his left. Gawain immediately pushed the half-decimated loaf towards the voice, and it disappeared into the murky corner. The cell was silent for a few seconds, save for the sound of a Sarmation knight and a female prisoner chewing bread. Gawain looked around for the water, only to find it being thrust his way by a slender arm. He took it gratefully and swigged a few gulps.

He couldn't get the picture of the girl's back from his mind. She looked as though she had been flogged, but as though the whip was aimed purposefully to mark her skin indefinitely.

'Who gave you the scars?' The words burst from his lips before he had a chance to stop himself.

Avilon took a deep breath. Her head was dizzy, vision blurring. The pain sizzled and cracked like a fire in her belly. She felt urged to say something. But she couldn't. Letting this man in would be... disastrous. But suddenly, she opened her mouth.

'I'm not Irish...' Avilon said in a clear, un-accented voice. It was a struggle to speak like that. She had been speaking Irish for ten years, and the habit had grown to be the way she talked.

'Where are you from?' Gawain asked, intrigued and more than a little surprised.

'Sarmatia.' Avilon said bluntly. Her voice was stronger now. 'A very small village. We were travellers, but that year we stopped moving. The men decided we could prosper while staying still. There was a stream, and a forest, and big green fields. We were cold all through winter and most of the summer too...' Avilon trailed off, realising she had betrayed herself. Gawain laughed bitterly.

'I don't remember my home,' he said emotionlessly. 'I was eleven when they came. Tristan was one of the eldest. He was thirteen. It's different for him. I have now been in this life longer than the other. So much for home – it's not so clear in my memory.' Avilon quenched the feeling of recognition at Tristan's name. Why did he haunt her so? In her memories, but just out of reach, like she didn't _want_to remember...

'Gawain,' Avilon swallowed the last of her bread loudly. 'I'm sorry about... about Gareth. I didn't know he was your brother... I'm truly sorry. Can you forgive me?' Gawain sucked in breath through his teeth. He had been here for ten minutes, and already he had forgotten his brother! _Pull yourself together, Gawain!_He reprimanded himself fiercely. _She killed Gareth, your brother. She deserves to die now too!_But in his heart and mind, he knew that wasn't true. He knew he had already forgiven the girl.

'I...' Gawain stumbled over the words, and then gave up, sighing. 'There is nothing to forgive,' he whispered. He heard the girl beside him breathe in sharply. Then, suddenly, like pouring water onto flagstones, Avilon started talking again.

'My brother was taken to be a knight when I was four. I don't remember him at all. Not even his name. He was nine when I was born, which would make him twenty-five now – but he died. Two years after he had gone, Roman soldiers came to the village and told us to come out of our huts. They burnt the whole village. They left their mark on me.' Avilon's hands trembled over her stomach, where Gawain knew to be burns. 'Mama put me on a horse and told me to never stop running. They killed everyone mercilessly. I watched from on the hill. A woman found me a few weeks later, half-starved, clinging to the horse, riding through the fields with no idea as to where I was going. She took me in and fed me. I was there for a week, maybe two. Then she sold me to Roman slave traders, who took us to Rome, and then to Ireland. They said we were to be a gift to one of Rome's most loyal subjects. I was seven when we reached the estate of the Roman. It took him half a year to realise I was even there, and from that minute on I barely left his side...' Avilon's voice broke off suddenly, cracking. She gulped back a sob, and stuffed more bread into her mouth.

Gawain couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. The tormented girl before him had just opened her soul and displayed to him every fragmented shard.

'Avilon... I...' Even in the dark, he could clearly see the girl's eyes blaze with fury.

'My name is _not_Avilon!' she spat.

Gawain was shocked at the amount of hatred and passion she could inject into her voice.

'Sorry,' he apologised, his hands again spread out before him in surrender.

'Don't be,' the girl said wearily. 'I don't know what my name is anyway, so there is nothing else you can call me.' Her head jerked up as the sound of quick footsteps echoed around the cell. Dagonet, followed closely by Arthur and Bors, burst through the entrance and crossed the cell to Avilon's side.

'We're taking you upstairs. You need to get out of here. I'm going to pick you up now,' Dagonet explained calmly. Gawain jumped to his feet, ready to help Dagonet lift her, but the larger knight was already halfway out of the cell, Avilon's body in his arm. Something silver dropped from Avilon's limp hand and fell to the floor, making a small tinkling sound. Neither Arthur nor Bors noticed it, having already left the cell. Gawain bent down, his hair falling over his face, and picked up the object. It was a silver chain, with a hawk pendant hanging from the fine strand. Something about it clicked in the back of Gawain's mind. The necklace's familiarity startled him. He had never seen anything like it in his life. _Strange,_he thought, tucking the necklace into his waistcoat pocket. Gawain looked around, somewhat surprised to see the cell empty. He shook his head and hurried from the cell, leaving behind him some breadcrumbs, a pitcher of water and a once-blue tunic, simple objects so easily forgotten.

Dagonet kicked open the closest door in the hall and swept through it, laying Avilon carefully on the bed. Her fever had hitched, and in her daze, she barely recognised the man staring worriedly down at her. The knights talked between themselves, discussing something Avilon couldn't hear. The room was absurdly bright after the murkiness of her cell, light flooding in from a window opposite the door. A dark haired knight – Avilon couldn't remember his name – left the room, almost running. Dagonet stood beside her bed and stroked her forehead with cool hands.

'Please...' Avilon mumbled, feeling the world close up and darken around her. 'Help...?' She succumbed to the fever, collapsing lifelessly into the straw mattress, hand falling from Dagonet's.

The rest of the knights – Bors, Gawain and Arthur – left quietly, understanding that the giant healer needed space and quiet if he was going to save the feverish girl. Pushing her dark hair from her paled skin, Dagonet found new scars under her chin: crescent moons, jagged around the edges. Bite marks.

He placed cold, wet cloths on the girl's body, trying to cool her flaming skin. Looking down at her scarred, bruised body, his heart twisted in his chest.

'How can a human do this?' he asked the empty room.

There was no reply. He didn't expect one.

* * *

The eight days that Avilon was asleep for passed slowly for Tristan. He spent the days in the stables, with Maura, half-asleep and quiet. He still hadn't caught up those hours of sleep he had lost before the girl had tried to kill Arthur. Blinking as a sudden ray of sunlight tumbled noiselessly over his face, Tristan thought of the girl asleep in Dagonet's room. He had been there the day before, watching over her, something that Dagonet had warned Arthur about. Yea, Tristan knew that the healer didn't trust him around the girl. Because of the bruises and fractured ribs Tristan had given her that day. But even now, Tristan regretted it. So much. He wished he could turn back the time; stop himself from hurting the girl. But being beside her, it triggered something deep within him. Something forgotten, or something that Tristan wanted to forget...

Another bright shaft of sunlight, released by the clouds, made Tristan shut his eyes. Orange spots danced on the inside of his eyelids, the warmth and intensity of the light causing his lips to twitch in a half-smile.

Maura, lying on the straw beside him, snorted, bringing Tristan jumping to his feet as the sound shattered the quiet. Laughing at himself, Tristan sheathed his sword – instinctively drawn from its scabbard – and leant his back against the sun-warmed wood of the stall.

It had been a week and a day since the assassination attempt, and the girl still hadn't awoken. Tristan knew her name: Avilon. But it didn't suit her, didn't feel right with him. She shouldn't be called that. Her name should be short, guttural, but with a prettiness... Tristan found himself stupidly thinking of suitable names for the girl: Aine, Morag, Yella.

Suddenly realising what he was doing, he opened his eyes quickly and looked round to see if anyone had been watching his momentary lapse in judgment. The stables were empty but for Tristan's brothers' horses.

Arthur's horse Denali was quietly eating, alongside Cordelia, Lancelot's fiery mare, whose shiny black flanks desperately needed brushing. Gawain's brown stallion, Arican, and Bors' massive, dark-brown male Raoul were nudging each other aside to get to the feed-bags nailed to the stall posts. Raoul was, quite inevitably, winning, his mouth full of feed, yet still pushing Arican away. Galahad's small black male, Felton, was very quiet, asleep standing in his stall. Felton had always been detached from the other horses, never joining in whenever they were released into the pastures, always letting the other horses eat first, standing back. Tristan admitted to hating Felton – the horse really infuriated him with his timid nature. Tristan turned to the last stall: Dagonet's beautiful, dark-grey female was very alert, blinking her long lashes against the sunlight and Tristan's permanently dark glare. She was very aptly named Nikalay, meaning 'hidden danger.' Nikalay was very docile, but if you aggravated her, she could get very angry. Tristan thought her and Dagonet were very alike – they both had a dangerous side, which they could hide very well.

Tristan decided it was time he got out of the stables – he badly needed to wash, and it would be his turn to watch over the girl in a few hours. He decided to go out of the fort and into the forest; there was a large lake about twenty minutes ride into the forest. Tristan stood and saddled Maura. Her ears pricked up and she nibbled the sleeve of his leather tunic as he fastened her reins, anticipating and impatient. He stroked her neck with his dirty fingers, and sighed at the smooth feel of her coat on his hands.

'Let's go,' Tristan whispered. He pulled on her reins and she followed dutifully, hooves tapping on the stone floor. As they left the shadow of the stables behind, blinking in the sun, Tristan mounted Maura and urged her onwards. She set off at a walking place, allowing herself to be directed through the streets of the fort and past Vanora's tavern.  
Three of Bors' children were screaming joyfully as two of Arthur's greyhounds – just puppies – snapped playfully at each other. As Tristan grew closer and then further away as he passed the open square, he recognised the children as Six, Two and Three. Two, the eldest one there, was nine, with dark red hair and blue eyes. His twin brother, Three, was his identical copy in every way, and it was very rare that they were separated. Six, at only four, was already a beauty, with long silver-blonde hair, pale skin and ice-blue eyes. Normally very quiet and detached from the others, Six was uncharacteristically involved in her brother's game of provoking the thin, yelping greyhounds. She had a smile that stretched from ear to ear, and it warmed Tristan to see her accepted and happy.

'Yea!' Tristan encouraged Maura on, digging in his heels, and she broke into a gallop. They stormed through the gate to the fort and away, following Hadrian's Wall until they broke off and entered the forest. It was beautiful, with the sun breaking through the canopy of trees, colours standing out and every leaf picked out in detail. Tristan slowed Maura to a walk and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply from the warm, tangy air. As they broke through into a clearing, Tristan opened his eyes and looked round. The clearing was circular, with the sun beating down and reflecting from the glass-like surface of a lake that near filled the otherwise empty stretch of tree-less forest. Tristan dismounted and tied Maura's reins to a nearby branch. Languorously undressing – there was no one else anywhere near – he dropped his leather tunic and dark grey undershirt in a pile next to the waters edge.

His sculpted, muscled chest exposed, Tristan looked around again, just to be sure there was no chance anyone was watching. He knew he was being rather stupid. There were no human tracks around the water or anywhere near, nothing to suggest humans even knew there was a lake here. There were barely any animal tracks either – no one used this water source fro washing or drinking. Well, except for Tristan.

Pulling off his boots and leather trousers, Tristan took one step into the cold water, watching the ripples around his ankles. Shivering, he took two more steps, then submerged his head, swimming further into the centre of the lake. Blissfully, he allowed his body to float, revelling in the cool sharpness of the water and the warm soft of the sunlight mingling on his skin.

After twenty minutes in the water, as his toes started to turn blue, Tristan decided it was time to dry off and head back to the fort. He dried himself on a large blanket from Maura's saddlebags, and dressed quickly. Untying Maura from the tree, he jumped into the saddle and they both galloped away from the lake. Tristan saw the wall even before they escaped the forest. It was huge, watching over everything... Tristan had been scared of it when he first came, now he was bored and full of hatred for the dark grey stones.

As they reached the wall, Tristan slowed Maura to a canter. She wanted to get back, but Tristan wanted to stay away. Who knew what would happen when he got back. _God's truth, the girl might even be awake,_ he thought to himself, smiling slightly as he realised how stupidly naive and impossible that was. She had been asleep for a week. Why would she wake up _now?_

Tristan pushed Maura into a gallop as the fort came into view, and she near flew through the gate, causing the women collecting water from the large well to jump in fright. As he reached the stables, Tristan yanked on Maura's reins and she halted. Galahad was talking hurriedly to Jols just outside the stable doors, and as Tristan led Maura forward, he turned and gave a sigh of exasperation and relief.

'Where in the...? Where have you been?'

Tristan's eyebrows shot up at Galahad's obvious hurry.

'Just in the forest,' Tristan said calmly. Galahad grabbed his arm and pulled him away from Jols, who had taken Maura's reins and was leading her into the stables.

'Arthur needs you, urgently.' Galahad explained as they came nearer to the knight's quarters. 'The girl – she's awake.'


	12. My Sister?

**Chapter Twelve: My Sister?**

'How long has she been awake?' Tristan asked Galahad as they hurried towards Dagonet's room.

'Oh, about an hour, maybe less. Dag wouldn't let anyone go in until Arthur started to threaten him.' Tristan's lips twitched. It sounded like Arthur. They took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door leading to the knight's corridor. Bors, Gawain and Lancelot were waiting outside, looking sulky and, in Gawain's case, rather worried. As Tristan and Galahad grew closer, Gawain pushed himself off the wall and put his arm out, blocking the door.

'You can't go in,' he said. Tristan raised an eyebrow and gave Gawain a slanted look. Gawain pulled back his arm but remained standing, his posture defensive. 'Dag won't let anyone in 'cept Arthur, and he had to nearly kill Dag to gain entrance.'

There were raised voices from inside the room, and after a few seconds Dagonet stormed out. He stopped short when he saw the five knights gathered in the corridor, then gave Tristan a glare and turned on his heel. Tristan gazed in angry disbelief at his retreating back, and turned to the open doorway. A loud yet slightly feeble voice pierced the surprised silence that had swelled between the knights, making Galahad jump visibly. Bors muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'good luck with _that_,' and followed Dag's resounding footsteps with an air of relief.

'No! Get out!' the voice yelled from within Dagonet's room. 'Get Tristan back in here for God's sake, I don't care! Kill me, do whatever you want! But stop boring me with your incessant _questions!_'

Tristan, deciding on the spot to enter the room, ducked his head under the doorframe and crossed the threshold. It took him a while to actually locate the girl. The bed – sheets rumpled and half falling from the frame – was empty, as was the graceful roman-style chair behind the door. The girl was standing by the window, wearing naught but one of Dagonet's old shirts and her hair tumbling, dishevelled, down her back. Her fiery glare was fixed unwaveringly on Arthur, whose brow was furrowed in disappointment and annoyance.

As Tristan entered, both the Roman and Sarmatian turned to gaze at him.

'What are you doing in here?' Arthur murmured.

'Well, she asked for me.' Tristan's lips twitched as the girl sent him a look that could curdle milk, and grinned back, enjoying her anger. 'What won't she tell you? And why was Dag so angry?'

'Avilon -'

'That is _not_ my name!'

'She won't tell me anything. Except that she was here to kill me, which we've obviously already established. But she now says she doesn't _want_ to kill me.' Tristan shook his head, then looked up at the girl. Her fire had faded away, and what was left was a thin girl with prominent cheekbones, hair and skin starkly contrasting. She was breathing heavily from her rage, and her hands were shaking.

'Well, why don't I try asking her?' Tristan grinned maliciously. 'We could pick up where we left off...'

The girl laughed bitterly.

'Dagonet, my _valiant_ protector, wouldn't let you closer than you are now.' Tristan took a step forwards, testing her resolve.

'Tristan,' Arthur warned, his voice low. 'It is not the time for foolish games.' Arthur turned back to the girl and asked, with a note of pleading in his voice, 'Why are you so stubborn? Why will you not talk to us?' The girl's eyes snapped up, and she took a step forwards.

'Fine! I was seven when my parents were burned in front of my eyes. I was taken as a slave to Rome, and then Ireland. I was raped, tortured and beaten for ten years until finally I killed my_owner_ and came here! Happy?' Her voice was slightly sarcastic, but the look of pain on her face echoed the years of torture she had suffered. Tristan took a step back. That was why she could resist his beatings. She had coped with worse.

The girl stumbled forwards and collapsed onto the bed. 'Go away. Get out,' she mumbled into the blankets. Arthur started to cross the room to the bed, but the girl lifted her head and glared at him.

'Get out, get out, _get out!_' she screamed.

Arthur let his hand drop to the floor and he pushed past Tristan on his way out. Tristan stared at the girl for another minute, and left. The girl lay her head down, and her body racked with sobs. _Maybe they will leave me be now,_she thought hopefully, but she knew that they would be back.

Outside, Gawain was staring in utter disbelief at Arthur as he recounted what had happened inside the room.

'Well I guess that's why Tristan's... methods... had no effect on her,' Gawain said quietly. Galahad snorted, shaking his head.

'I'm going to Vanora's. She's so much less... dramatic.' The young curly-haired knight stalked away, followed by Lancelot, leaving Gawain, Tristan and Arthur staring desolately at Dagonet's closed door.

'We can try to talk to her again later,' Gawain suggested, as the sobs coming from inside Dag's room subsided. Arthur nodded, looking away and up at the pale ceiling. He closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing his eyelids, trying to rid himself of the weariness that had suddenly taken a firm hold on him.

'If you need me,' he said, already walking away down the corridor towards his own room, 'I shall be asleep.' Tristan smirked at Gawain's worried glance that flickered between Dagonet's closed door and their Roman general's back.

'You worry too much,' Tristan thumped Gawain on the back and pulled an apple from his pocket. 'Arthur is just tired, and _she -_' he indicated to the door to his left '- is just stubborn.' He turned from his friend and strolled casually away from him, taking large bites from his apple.

'Yes, but I'm still _worried,_' Gawain murmured with quiet affection, sweeping a heavy swathe of tawny hair away from his face. As he turned to leave, thinking of Vanora's tavern and the wine that awaited him, he heard heavy footsteps behind him.

'So you're finally leaving her alone...' Dag's deep, soft voice echoed slightly from the high ceiling. Gawain turned and smirked at his friend's glower.

'She got angry with Arthur, and I could have sworn even Tristan was put out by her. Yea, our fearless, emotionless scout – put out!' Dag's lips curled into a half smile, and he pushed open the door a crack. The girl was asleep, her arm dangling from the bed, face covered by the mass of black hair.

'You know,' Dag said as they walked together down the corridor, 'I was thinking of some names for her. Just so we don't have to call her 'the girl' anymore.'

Gawain stopped in his tracks, staring at Dagonet.

'Really? That's...' _A good idea. I should have thought of that..._ 'That's nice. Can I give you some suggestions? What have you got so far?' They started walking again, Gawain shadowed by Dag's enormous form.

'Only a few,' Dag mumbled, a slight blush forming on his cheeks. 'Some names from home. Roxolani names. Vidgis, Ingrid, Astrid, Indra and Megan. I thought they were all very fitting for her.'

'Aye,' Gawain laughed. 'Vidgis means 'the blood,' Ingrid is 'the traveller,' Astrid is 'raven' and Megan is 'black warrior.' Very _fitting..._But Indra is pretty, no? Maybe you should put the names to her, see if she wants one?' Gawain looked up at his tall friend, whose eyes were sparkling, and grinned. Dagonet nodded, and said quietly,

'But maybe she wishes to be known as 'the girl' for ever more...'

* * *

Night had settled over the fort at Hadrian's Wall. In Vanora's tavern, Two and Three still hadn't given up their game. Six had long since gone, bored with her brothers' game, but the boys were still enjoying poking fun at Arthur's dogs.

'Bite him!' Two laughed, shouting at the greyhounds. A shrill whistle brought the children's game to an end. The greyhounds ran to their master, who bent down and stroked their slender backs.

'Arthur! Arthur!' Three cried. 'We were playing.' His bottom lip wobbled and he pouted, then ran back to his brother and they both yelped with laughter. Arthur watched them as they went over to where his fellow knights were seated and tugged at their father's jerkin.

'Good boy, Cabal,' Arthur murmured, stroking his dogs. 'Good boy, Kerberos.' He crossed the open square, followed by his dogs, to the table where Gawain, Galahad, Bors, Dagonet and Lancelot sat. The table was overflowing with five or six clay pitchers, and twenty-something clay beakers, some half-filled with wine, others drained of their former contents. Galahad, Bors and Gawain were quite drunk, Lancelot a little less and Dagonet nearly completely sober.

It appeared that Dagonet had had half a cup of wine and had gotten into a fight with Tristan, which was why the scout was no longer sat at the table. The reason for the fight was, inevitably, the girl in Dagonet's room. Gawain had mentioned Dag's plan to name the girl, and Tristan had laughed outright, said that the dead needed no names, especially those that no one would remember; Dagonet had thrown his beaker across the table and swung a punch at him. It had taken Bors and Lancelot just to merely restrain him while Tristan made a quick exit.

Frowning down at Dagonet, Arthur decided he should tell them about the girl.

'She's ready to talk,' he said, picking up a half-full beaker of wine and downing it. 'I was discussing it with her – she wants to tell us everything.'

'Why the damned wait?' Galahad growled. Bors raised his eyebrows and nodded, looking up at Arthur through glazed, inebriated eyes.

'She's afraid we wont believe her. She doesn't want us to -'

'Believe her?' Galahad jumped from his seat, and slammed his beaker on the table. 'And why should we? She murdered Gareth. What reason has she given us to believe her?'

'Gareth was my brother!' Gawain yelled furiously. 'You have no right to bring his name into this conversation!' Galahad sat down, humbled yet bitter. 'I believe her – I will listen and not judge her for her past,' Gawain continued. 'And so should you.' Dagonet nodded in agreement, and Lancelot looked up at Arthur.

'Now?' he asked.

Arthur laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, nodding slowly.

'Bors, Galahad, sober up a little and meet us in the hall.'

Bors and Galahad left together for the bathhouse, where the cold water would cleanse their bodies and minds of the alcohol.

'Come, Lancelot, Dagonet.'

Lancelot stood, followed quickly by Dagonet, and they left in the direction of the fortress hall.

'Gawain, when you are ready, come to the hall,' Arthur added, touching his friend lightly on the shoulder.'

Gawain nodded and turned back to his wine. His hand went unconsciously to his neck, around which hung a fine silver chain with a hawk pendant. He rubbed it between two fingers, and stood to leave. Before he even knew what was happening, rough hands grabbed his throat and pushed him against the wall. Gold eyes glinted beneath a heavy black fringe.

'This is mine!' Tristan hissed, ripping the hawk pendant from Gawain's throat. 'Where did you find it?'

Gawain shoved him away, trying to snatch the necklace back.

'In the cell she was in! Get off!' Tristan let go of the handful of Gawain's tunic he had grasped, and turned away.

'The girl's cell? Why was this there...?' Tristan fastened the chain round his throat, where it clicked gently, hitting against another necklace. _Wait,_ Tristan thought. _I only wear one..._ He felt round his neck again and pulled the two necklaces off. They lay in his palm, identical silver pendants, two hawks side-by-side in flight.

'What the...?' Tristan looked disbelievingly at the pendants in his palm. His sister? His sister had been in the girls' cell? And then it came to him, two sparkling images, side by side.

The girl in Dag's room: prominent cheekbones, dark, bottomless eyes, night-black hair framing a pale face. Her slender neck, thin arms and long, elegant fingers. So alike to the picture beside it: a younger face, cheekbones and jaw easily visible, shadowed eyes, hollowed from lack of sleep, curls of black hair, so dark against the near-white skin. Her graceful hands, slim fingers, dirty nails... Tristan's sister.

'She's my sister?' he gasped. Did she know? Did...? Tristan couldn't think. So many memories, so many pictures. How could he not have seen it before? She was his sister, his flesh and blood. _How could he not have_ _seen_?

Tristan raised a hand to his eyes and rubbed them fiercely. Gawain was staring at him, shocked.

'Tristan?' he asked, worried. The one word seemed to snap Tristan from his reverie.

'Let's go,' he said gruffly. 'Now.' Tristan's golden eyes glittered, reflecting the torches that hung on the tavern walls. 'Oh, and I'm sorry about... You know.' Gawain shook off the apology, wondering as to what could trouble his friend so. He said something about a sister... Gawain threw his thoughts aside. He should turn his mind instead to the matter in hand: the girl.

As they entered the fortress hall, Gawain looked round, searching the room for the girl. She was huddled inside Dagonet's leather jacket, curled up in one of the chairs around the circular table. Tristan left his side and crossed to the far wall, the furthest from the girl. Gawain took a seat about seven chairs round form her, next to Galahad. His hair was very wet, dripping onto his shoulders and the table. Gawain looked across at the girl just as Dagonet sat in the seat beside her. It was strange, thought Gawain, that the Roxolani healer had taken such a protective role with the girl, even after all that had happened.

Gawain's silent musings were interrupted by Arthur's calm, deep voice.

'Go ahead, when you're ready,' he said, and the girl breathed deeply.

'I...' She coughed harshly, and looked up at the knights surrounding her: Dagonet was worried, Arthur calmly accepting, Tristan glowering, Gawain staring at his hands, Galahad was looking anywhere but at her, and Bors had an air of boredom around him. Lancelot, however, was gazing slightly apprehensively up at her, eyes half-hidden beneath his overgrown, curly, black fringe.

She started again, determined.

'I was born in Sarmatia, in the northern half. I remember very little of my childhood, except those memories of my brother. I have forgotten my family – my memories of them were chased away...'


	13. The Girl's Story

**This is Avilon's story. It's in first person, because that was the easiest way. Should be as long as a chapter, but if it's not as long as I want, I'll just make it a short chapter. Okay?**

**Chapter Thirteen: Avilon's Story**

I was born in Sarmatia, in the northern half. I remember very little of my childhood, except those memories of my brother. I have forgotten my family – my memories of them were chased away, like straw in the wind. I was four when my brother was taken. My mother cried, my father was proud. He was to be a Sarmatian knight. I knew I would miss him. That morning, the river broke its' banks, and the water flooded through our village. Me and my brother found two necklaces in the river, floating. I told him I would wear it until he came back, until we saw each other again. I never did see him again; up till this day I have wondered what he'd be like, who he'd be. He can't have been an amazing fighter – he would be with us now...

He left, and he faded from my life. I was only four – there was no staying power to my mind anyway. That is the only memory I have of him, a happy one. I like to remember him from that day – smiling, happy. I don't even know his name. I knew it once, along with my parents' names... but I have forgotten it all, hidden everything away.

Two years later, Romans came to the village. There were about twenty of them. They told us to go to our huts, and so we did. I was six when they burnt our village. I was small – I hid with the chickens, and they didn't see me. I could hear my mother's screams, but I couldn't get to her. The fire – I feel it on my face even now. It has marked me. I can never forget that day – the burns remind me of it every time I see them.

When they had gone, taking our finest horses and stores of food, I came out. The village was like an empty battlefield; it was all dead, everyone was dead. I only remember the feel of a dying horse beneath me, the cold wind, rain in my eyes, mixing with the tears.

I don't know how long I was riding, but I stopped eventually. An old woman found me, starving, dying... She took me in, kept me alive. We crossed the border into Rome's empire, in Greece, and it was not long before she sold me to the slave traders. They didn't want me – the burns made me damaged goods... But she managed to get rid of me all the same, she gave me to Romans.

They took us to Zucchabar, in North Africa. Then to Rome. I was there for a day, maybe two. I don't remember it. Just the pale stones, the wooden cage bars, the people. They stuck their hands through the cages, touched us. So many different people with lives and faces and colours. They sold us in the slave markets.

After a day, we were travelling again. Chained together, walking side-by-side, row-by-row. There were thirty of us, maybe more. The traders spared me no mercy, although I was by far the youngest, smallest, most naïve. I was six, and yet they expected me to be an adult, to walk like an adult. I remember there was a woman beside me – she had black skin – her name was Casscoi. She was from the far away lands, where the sun shines everyday... she carried me some days, when I gave her the bread I could not eat. She taught me to be strong; to never let them hurt me, to always believe in myself. She told me about her family in her homeland. I loved to hear her talk – she sang me to sleep each night.

We walked to Ireland. It took us a year, maybe a little less, maybe more. They said we were to be a gift for one of Rome's most loyal subjects. I was seven by the time we got there. The 'loyal subject' was called Evin Larsen. I learned to hate that name. We were slaves, chattels, working every day from sun up to sun down.

It happened one day, about six months after we got there. Evin Larsen, our _gracious master_ was in the bathhouse. They told me to serve him, to take him wine and a linen sheet. I did – I had to. And he chose me. Then, in that moment. That night, he ordered me to his chamber, and it was the same every night for six years.

I was thirteen when I first tried to escape. There was a man called Lucius. Lucius Tiberious. He was Roman, so I hated him on principle. But he was kind to me, and tried to help me. But Evin found out that I was going to escape, and went to the meeting place. He found Lucius and me and banished Lucius from his lands. Lucius was much higher up in the Roman hierarchy than Evin ever could be, so he couldn't kill him. But he did worse to me.

There was a room in his house that had no windows. When the door was closed, the darkness was complete, utter black. Evin locked me in there for nearly a month after I tried to leave. He cut me and beat me, raped me, whipped me, tortured me. I closed my eyes and kept breathing.

Then, four years later, I killed him with his own knife, in his own house, on his own land. I felt no satisfaction, only hatred, only calm. From then on, I had one thing to live for. Evin had told me it was Artorius who had ordered the deaths of my parents. Who was I to doubt his word? What knowledge did I have that could oppose it? I travelled for three months, and came here. I tried to kill the man that had killed my parents, and instead killed an innocent – a boy – and I regret it, so much.

And now I am here, not dead, as I thought I would be. I was saved by the very man I swore to kill, and the men who serve him. I am no longer the assassin who came to your room, Arthur. I am changed. I wish to live, to love, to feel again.

I hope you can forgive me, Arthur, for what I have done. I hope you, Gawain, can forgive me too, for the death of your brother. I hope I can be forgiven by God, I hope I can be forgiven…


	14. He Had Found Her

**Chapter Fourteen: He Had Found Her**

_It was strange,_ Gawain thought, _hearing the girl talk about her past as if narrating, as if talking of someone from history._ He gazed up at her tired face, and his heart ached. She looked so fragile, so infantile; he couldn't believe this was the same girl as the one who had killed his brother. She was just a child, a motherless child, lost, so far from her home.

Dagonet helped her up, and they walked together from the hall, her leaning against him, leaving behind a discontented silence. Bors stood up and took a swig from the cup of wine grasped in his hand.

'Well that explains a lot,' he snorted. 'She's had the best life, eh?' Galahad coughed, looking up at Gawain, whose eyes had narrowed at Bors' comment.

'At least we know now,' the youngest of the Sarmatians said.

'Know what, Galahad?' Arthur questioned.

'We know she was telling the truth – she did come here for vengeance, not as an assassin.'

'We can't be sure of that.' Tristan's voice surprised the others in the room – they had forgotten that their Hyrci scout was standing against the wall. 'This could be another ruse.'

'No, Tristan,' Arthur disagreed, his voice flat. 'You saw her this morning, and now... she wouldn't make this up. This has to be the truth.'

'Besides,' added in Lancelot, 'after what you did to her I'm pretty sure she wouldn't lie anymore.' He smirked across the room at Tristan, whose normally calm composure slipped slightly.

'You think I don't regret it? You think I enjoyed it?'

'Well, you have a bloodlust none of us here could compete with,' Lancelot taunted.

'Enough, enough!' shouted Arthur, and Tristan had to bite back his spiteful retort. 'She's telling the truth. You can't doubt that now. Tristan, you're watching over her tonight. She's still unwell, but I'm not sure we can trust her alone yet.' Tristan's temper cooled, and his face resumed its usual passive expression; he turned and stalked from the room.

Gawain, who had been watching his fellow knights' childish exchange with little more than boredom, pushed himself out of his chair.

'Vanora's?' The question was directed at Galahad, who, after a quick look at Bors, nodded; the three knights left together, leaving Lancelot and Arthur in an uneasy silence.

'So what do we do?' Lancelot surprised himself with his words. Arthur turned his eyes heavenwards, gazing at the painted ceiling. It was a typical Roman picture – Gods, naked women and wine. Arthur sighed quietly.

'We go back to how it was before. We have three more years to live through Lancelot. But just think of it – peace, finally. After our fifteen years of blood, you will be able to see the sun rise over Sarmatian land once again.'

'Yea,' agreed Lancelot, standing. 'And you, Arthur? You will return to your beloved Rome, gaze at the pale stones of the coliseum and think of the knights who laid down their lives for you, for Rome...' Lancelot threw open the door, suddenly angry, and slammed it shut behind him. He leant against the cool wood, breathing deeply. _Sunrise over Sarmatia?_ Lancelot thought bitterly, imagining the pale colours brought to life by the flaming sun. _I will die before I see that, my friend._

* * *

Dagonet slipped from under the girl's arm, helping her onto the bed.

'Thank you, Dag,' she murmured. She tried to turn away from him, but Dagonet gently touched her arm and she looked up at him.

'That was very brave, what you did,' he said quietly. 'You didn't have to tell them everything, but you did. I must say, I admire it.' The girl smiled wearily, slight dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth.

'Dag,' she said cautiously. The Roxolani healer nodded, a little apprehensive. 'Can I have something to eat?' Dagonet nearly laughed. He had been sure the girl was going to say something truly important.

'I'll go to the kitchens now.' He turned to go, then seemed to remember something. 'Tristan can bring it up – he's watching you tonight.' His voice was slightly hostile, but the girl dismissed his cold manner regarding the scout.

She lay back in the pillows and her eyes flickered shut.

'_I'll wear it forever, Tris,' the girl said, her voice full of love. Water dripped from her fingers and onto his. He fastened the cold chain around her neck and she grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling. 'Until you come back. Then we can be together again.'_

A sudden movement in the room woke the girl, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the bright sunshine in the room, she made out the shadow of a person seated by the bed.

'Tristan?' she mumbled. The scout held out a bowl full of some sort of thick, steaming liquid. The girl pushed herself up, and took the bowl; sniffing it cautiously, she put a spoonful in her mouth and relaxed. Warm porridge.

Tristan sat back in his chair, slicing up an apple with a long, bone-handled hunting knife. To the girl in the bed, he seemed very alert, and a little intimidating. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and finished the porridge quickly.

Tristan put down the apple core and stabbed the knife into the arm of the chair, where it stood erect like a soldier. He looked up at the girl through his fringe, and she met his gaze evenly. As he stared at her, a small furrow appeared between her eyebrows, creasing the pale skin.

'I...' Tristan began, then stopped. _You can do this,_ he told himself firmly. 'I wanted to give you this.' He reached out his hand, and for a second the girl stupidly thought he wanted her to kiss his fingers. But then something slim and silver dropped from his hand, swinging and glinting in the sunlight. She gasped, and snatched the necklace from his hand. She fastened it round her neck and sighed as the cool metal of the hawk pendant settled just below her collarbone.

'Where did you find it?' she asked, a note of distrust in her voice. Instead of an answer, Tristan's hands went to the back of his own neck, fumbling with something there. He held out his hand again and another necklace fell into her lap. She picked it up, and then looked in horror and disbelief from the necklace dangling from her fingers to the man staring at her with a mix of caution and hope in his golden eyes.

'You? You're my...?' She launched herself out of the bed, and threw the necklace at him. 'You are NOT my brother.' She ran to the door and threw it open.

'No wait, Cavan, wait...' as he said the name, she turned and gaped openly, still gripping the door's handle.

'What did you call me?' she hissed.

'Cavan. It's your name, sister,' Tristan whispered yearningly.

'No. Get away from me. My brother is dead!' Her eyes flamed furiously. 'You are no blood of mine!' She flew out of the door, pushing past Gawain who was walking casually down the corridor.

'Avi?' he shouted after her, then was knocked aside again, but by Tristan this time, as the scout rushed after the fleeing girl. 'Tristan? What did you do?'

Slightly dumfounded, Gawain stared at Tristan's hastily receding back. 'What in the name of the Goddess Aine...?' he asked the silent, empty corridor.

'Cavan? Dammit... Avi?' The howling silence stretched out before Tristan like a road: bare and dismal. The room was empty, as was the next one. Tristan pushed open the door to Arthur's room and looked around. Empty.

'Tristan, what's going on?' Dagonet's deep voice came from behind him. 'I went to check on Avilon, and she's not there.' His voice was low and threatening. Tristan turned to him, eyes flashing.

'She escaped,' he said slowly. I'm trying to find her.'

'She didn't _escape_. She isn't an _animal,_ Tristan!' Tristan turned his back on the healer and started to jog down the corridor. Dagonet's resounding orders of 'You'd better find her' echoed behind him.

_Stupid, overprotective healer,_ thought Tristan. _She's _my _sister._But then again, Dag didn't know that. The only person who might have a tiny inkling of Tristan and the girl's relationship was Gawain. _He's too thick to have worked it out though, _Tristan told himself. _I'll tell people when Cavan's ready._

She was leant against the wall, looking out over the mass of fields and trees that was Britain. The wind snatched at her hair, longingly caressed her skin. She breathed in deep the pure air and sighed. The sound of boots on stone steps behind the girl made her jump; she took a few steps away from where the steps melted into the ledge on which she stood.

' Cavan?' A soft voice spoke carefully and a hand fell gently on her shoulder. 'I'm sorry – I thought you knew already.'

'I did know. I knew you. The first time I saw you, I knew. I just hid it deep down. I didn't want to believe... Or maybe I wouldn't let myself.' She turned and looked up into his eyes. She saw herself in the sparkling golden orbs, the girl she was before her brother had left.

The small cut on his cheek, the one she had made by throwing the necklace at him, dripped red. 'I'm sorry,' she said, touching his face.

'I've had worse,' her brother replied roughly. She kissed his cheek, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. The necklaces at their chests clinked gently.

'Now we can be together. You have returned to me.' Cavan's voice cracked and she sobbed into Tristan's shoulder. Suddenly exhausted, she looked up at him and said, 'Dagonet must be so angry with you because I ran away. I think we should go back to the room.' She started towards the steps, but her legs wobbled and threatened to give way beneath her. Tristan caught her and lifted her into his arms. She buried her face into his hair and breathed deeply.

'When was the last time you washed, brother?' A silence met her words, then Tristan laughed.

'The day you woke up,' he replied, carefully making his way past the entrance to Vanora's tavern. Galahad and Bors looked up from their drinks and stared. The Hyrci scout had never _picked up_a girl. He had never even _looked_ at one. The only things he showed such kindness to were his horse and his sword.

'Well you need to wash again,' Cavan stated, unaware of Galahad's gaping, 'o' shaped mouth. They passed the tavern and stables, and Tristan put her down as they reached the knight's quarters.

'So tell me,' he said cautiously, 'why _is_ Dag so angry at me?' Cavan looked up at him, a little bemused.

'Well, just in case you don't remember, you _did_ throw me around quite badly,' she joked. Tristan looked down at the floor. He wanted to apologise, but the words wouldn't come.

'He's mad at me for _that?'_ he asked instead.

'Well, it's understandable. I'm a girl, obviously, and eight or nine years younger than you. I guess it's just his fatherly instincts kicking in.'

'Yea,' Tristan agreed, feeling a little stupid that he hadn't worked that out. As they continued down the corridor, Tristan felt her eyes on him, but whenever he looked at her, she was always staring straight ahead.

They reached Dag's door. Inside were three knights. Dagonet's eyes were blazing, Arthur was trying to calm him down and Lancelot was watching the exchange with uninterested eyes. He turned as Tristan and Cavan came through the door, his eyes lighting up a little at the sight of her.

'Dag,' Lancelot warned softly.

'There you are, Avilon!' the healer near-shouted. 'What did he do to you?'

'Nothing,' Cavan laughed, amused at Dag's fussing. 'We talked.'

Arthur stared at her in disbelief.

'You talked?' he and Lancelot said in unison. Cavan sat down on the bed, helped by Dag, and looked up at the two knights.

'Yes, we talked. It did, of course, take him about an hour to find me.' She smiled at Tristan. Lancelot's eyes moved quickly from the grinning girl in the bed to the scout stood in the corner, whose lips were twitching.

What was going on?

'Oh, and Dag,' the girl continued. 'I've chosen a name.' Dag looked up, a little confused.

'How did you know?' he said.

'I heard you talking about it.' She smiled at the Roxolani, then her eyes flicked to Tristan. 'You can call me Cavan now.'

She blinked drowsily and yawned. Dag saw and frowned.

'Out, please,' he ordered the Sarmatians. 'She's had a tiring day and she needs to rest.'

'Until tomorrow,' Lancelot murmured, winking and bowing at Cavan. The rest of the Sarmatians followed him out, save for Dagonet and Gawain. Tristan, who had not moved since he had re-entered Cavan's room, also still stood in the room.

'I can watch her tonight,' Gawain said, smiling at Cavan. She blinked at him and blushed slightly.

'I will.' Tristan had not moved, but the words had come from his corner. Gawain frowned, but backed from the room with a nod to the girl on the bed.

Dagonet motioned for Cavan to lie down, and he drew the covers over her. He picked up the remains of Cavan's porridge and left the room.

As soon as he had gone, Tristan moved to her side and sat in the chair beside the bed. She reached over and took his hand. For a second he didn't know what to do, but then he curled his fingers around hers and she smiled sleepily at him. Her eyelids fluttered shut and her breathing slowed.

He brushed the hair from her face, softly, trying not to disturb her. He remembered doing the same thing to her when she was but a tiny child, and he saw her for the first time, in his mama's arms.

'_Home is behind, the world ahead_,' he started to sing quietly in his own tongue, the one song that he remembered from home. '_And there are many paths to tread, through shadow, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight. Mist and shadow, cloud and shade. All shall fade…_' As the song drew to an end, Cavan mumbled in her sleep and rolled over, her hand slipping from her brother's.

Tristan looked down at the sleeping girl beside him. Now that he had realised who she was, he could not understand how he had not seen it earlier. But he would have had it no other way.

'Sweet dreams, sister,' he said quietly. He was happy. He'd found her.


	15. Gracious And Forgiving

**So... I know it has been a REALLY long time since I wrote any of this, but I'm happy to be working on it again. I missed Avi, and Tristan... Anyway, I recently rewrote the last chapter - mainly the end - but I would advise you to read it, because of changing names and so on and so forth. However, you could always just send me a message asking what the hell's going on, if you want. So... have fun reading, and please review!**

**Chapter Fifteen: Gracious And Forgiving**

Cavan woke the next morning to find a shadowy room and her brother asleep. Tristan's breath was coming heavy and slow, his eyelids flickering gently. She sat up and reached over to pour herself a cup of wine from the clay jug on the table. Realising she was parched, Cavan gulped down the wine and refilled her cup. She pushed off the blankets and rose from the bed. It was chilly in the room – the sun was not yet up and the night seemed to have sucked the heat from the world. Added to the fact that Cavan was wearing only thin breeches and a worn linen shirt, it was understandable that she shivered.

Barefooted, she crossed the room and opened the door. Checking that Tristan was still asleep, Cavan slipped out of the room and silently closed the door behind her. She hadn't had the freedom to simply walk around for such a long time – as she travelled down the corridor she felt liberated, boundless. Like a bird.

The walls and ceiling were painted white, with iron brackets every so often with lit torches in them. They cast an orange glow on the pale walls. Cavan reached the end of the corridor and came to some stairs leading downwards. She descended them slowly, looking around her. There was a white statue beside the bottom step – some sort of Roman goddess in a chiton. As she ran her fingers over the woman's face, Cavan saw a boy – about her age – coming down the corridor. He wore a deep red, short-sleeved toga tied at the waist with a white strip of cloth. Balanced on his hand was a round tray laden with dirty bowls and plates.

'Excuse me,' Cavan said. The boy glanced up at her, looking uncertain as to whether he should bow, or run and alert the guards. He decided on the former, stiffly inclining his head.

'Is there something I can help you with, my lady?' he asked, with a voice like the sea – rushing and fast.

'A few things, actually. I would like to go to the kitchens, and – if there is one – a tailor or dressmaker. Could you tell me where to find them?'

'Well if you follow me I can show you to the kitchen. I work there. Then I can get someone to call Levin to your rooms if you want.' He didn't wait for a reply, just set off down the corridor. Cavan followed him around the corner and through a door on their left that led to a square-shaped yard; the white building she had come out of made up three sides and a large gate the fourth. There were a few chickens pecking in the dust and a black-and-white cat sat in the centre of the yard, seemingly waiting for something. As the boy and Cavan approached, the cat meowed loudly and wrapped itself around the boy's ankles, almost tripping him. However, he navigated around the animal and continued walking. The cat followed him.

'What is your name?' Cavan asked as they went through the gate and round towards the back of the white building, followed by the meowing cat.

'Cillén,' replied the boy, not slowing his pace or looking round. He led her round the corner and into a great expanse of green field. Before them was another building, square and painted a deep red, like Cillén's toga. It was clearly where they were headed. There were five other boys clustered around a wooden trench of water that stood beside the door to the building. They were all of similar ages, with short hair, and they wore the same togas as Cillén did. The boys were washing their hands and faces in the water, splashing each other and laughing.

'Eyoran,' Cillén shouted. One of the boys by the trench spun around and wiped the smile off his face. 'Stop pissing about and get inside.' The boy named Eyoran hurried inside, followed by the others. 'This is the kitchens,' Cillén said, motioning to the red building. 'You cannot come here unless I or another of the boys is with you. Or the cook will hit you and throw you out.' Cavan nodded, storing that piece of information away. Cillén showed her inside and put down his tray beside a large sink full of steaming water and dirty cutlery. A boy was up to his elbows in it, rubbing the knives and forks with a cloth until they were clean.

Cavan looked around. The kitchen was full of steam, but it was not yet that hot. The smell of freshly baked bread, roasting meat and warm ale swirled in the air. Along the back wall, there were three massive bread ovens and four fires with chimney ways above them. Each fire had something over it: on the first, a large black pot was bubbling, full of boiling water, oats and spices; the second had a pig suspended above the flames, roasting on a spit; the third had a large circular stone with bread resting on it – keeping the bread warm; and the fourth had three iron kettles hanging from a metal contraption above the flames. Along another wall there was a long, thick, flat piece of stone over fires, attached to the wall at about waist height. It was about seven or eight foot long. There were holes cut into the stone, through which the flames could be seen. Several holes were covered up by round-bottomed clay pots that fitted perfectly into the holes. They had lids on, and the muted sound of bubbling could be heard from inside. On the wall behind the stone hung a variety of metal tools – measuring pots, long-handled spoons, knives, saucers, tongs, circular pieces of metal with handles and dripping trays – and boxes nailed to the wall with such words as _oregano, mint, lovage, fennel _and _bay_ inscribed on their fronts.

From the ceiling hung bunches of herbs, strings of garlic, dried fish and salted meat, dead birds and hares, and, in the centre of the room, a large iron candle holder, all of its wax occupants lit.

There were boys in red togas flitting about, carrying trays and baskets laden with vegetables and heaving buckets filled with water. Those working with the fires and ovens were red-faced and sweating. As Cavan stood in the doorway, in awe of the sights and smells around her, Cillén picked up a small gong that lay by the door and banged it loudly. Every boy put down their loads and came to where Cavan stood. She realised she was in the way. Stepping aside, she watched the boys as the left the kitchen, washed their hands and faces in the water trench, and came back inside. They all sat down at the long trestle table that sat against the fourth wall, with one boy handing out bowls and spoons to all the others, and fetching one of the pots from over the fire. He went down the line of boys in togas, filling their bowls with thick porridge from the pot. Cavan suddenly understood – it was breakfast.

'This way,' Cillén said, pointing towards the bread ovens. 'I will introduce you to Fabius. He is the cook.' Fabius was a very tall, slender man with a scar that rendered his right eye useless. He had been in the Roman army but had been honourably discharged after his injury. He smiled at Cavan and asked her to join breakfast with them. She immediately warmed to him – he, like her, was scarred, and the way he acted – like there was no purple scar over his face – gave her confidence. She was given bowl of porridge and a slice of salted bread. Cillén lifted the black-and-white cat onto the table and gave it a saucer of porridge. It lapped at the edge with pleasure, purring slightly.

'So you're the pretty little Irish thing that's been causing all the trouble with the Sarmatians, eh?' Fabius joked.

'Yes, I would suppose that was me,' Cavan replied, smiling at the cook. She paused. 'Does everybody know about me?'

'I wouldn't say everyone. But word travels fast round here – 'specially if you've got fine young lads like mine who are well trained to listen at doorways and be invisible!' Fabius laughed loudly, and the boys all grinned.

'Does Arthur know of your enterprise?' asked Cavan, interested. Cillén answered her with a shake of his head. Seeing the gesture, Fabius turned to the boy.

'I gather my Cillén has introduced himself to you, my lady?' The way he said 'my Cillén' made Cavan wonder if in fact they were father and son.

'Please, I am no lady. The name my ma gave me is Cavan, and it is the one I now use.'

'Cavan? Why, I had a bitch of that name, did I not, boy?' Fabius asked. Cillén nodded, still eating his porridge. The rest of the boys were finishing up, wiping their bowls with the last of their bread. Fabius saw this and gave them an order. 'Lads, you've got until the hour to wash up those bowls and rest before it is back to work with the breakfasts. And I'll need a boy to get to the orchards. I need apples, boys!' The boys climbed from their seats and dropped their bowls into the sink before leaving. Apparently, it turned to the last boy for the unfortunate job of clearing up after his friends.

'Father,' Cillén said to Fabius, confirming Cavan's suspicion of their being related. 'The lady needs to visit Levin. Shall I take her or shall I get Maro?'

'I need you here, lad. Go get your sister and she can take her. And get that cat out of my kitchen or I'll kill it!' Fabius picked up his all three of their bowls and dropped them in the sink and Cillén ran out of the door to go and fetch Maro, his sister. Cavan crossed her legs on the bench and settled in to wait for the boy's return. Fabius poured two cups of honeyed wine and pushed one towards her. She sipped it thankfully. It tasted lovely.

'Thank you for your hospitality, Fabius,' Cavan said quietly.

'Don't thank me, my girl. We usually have that scout here in the mornings eating our food. He eats a hell of a lot, does that man. Sets my boys on edge, too.' The tall cook spoke with a slightly negative note in his voice, as though he disapproved of Tristan's very existence.

'Tristan does that to many a person. You just have to leave him be and he'll sit quiet and cause no trouble.'

'I'll take your word for it, my girl. Ah, Maro, you're here.' Cavan looked up to the doorway to see Cillén and a girl who looked almost exactly the same as he. They even wore the same clothes. The only thing to tell them apart was the girl's hair – long and plaited – and their eyes. Maro's eyes blazed a fierce reddish brown, contrasting to her brother's, which were pale and green. 'Take this lovely lady to Levin, please, daughter. And you can pick up my linen while you're there. We'll need to set about wrapping the meat for the winter.'

Maro bowed to Cavan and gestured through the door. 'This way, please, my lady.' Cavan rolled her eyes at the use of the word 'lady,' but followed the girl all the same.

Levin's rooms were situated in another building behind the large white one where the knights – and Cavan – stayed. The building had two floors, with large square windows, their shutters flung wide to welcome the rising sun. It was made of a pale sand-coloured stone, and had a flat roof. In the light of the just-risen sun, the bricks seemed to shine from the inside with a reddish glow.

Maro knocked three times on the door, then entered. As her eyes accustomed to the light inside the room, Cavan saw that it was empty of human life. There were all sorts of cloths hanging down from the ceiling in all colours, and leather straps too. Maro pushed past a swathe of thick red wool cloth and revealed stairs that led up to the second floor.

'Levin!' she cried up the stairs. Cavan looked around again, taking in the piles of togas, tunics, cloaks and other forms of clothing, the leather sandals stacked against the wall, and at the centre of it all, a large wooden table upon which rested hundreds of squares of thin linen, countless pairs of scissors and small tubs of thick iron needles.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, then suddenly a woman appeared at the bottom of them. She wore a dark green dress, typical of the style the Britons wore – long and pulled in on the hips with a belt, with sleeves reaching to her elbows. She held a babe in her arms – not long since born – but her frame was slender.

'Good morning, Maro. I just cannot get this babe to sleep. He's been up half the night wailing and that dratted husband of mine is no-where to be seen. Oh, good morning!' Levin said, noticing Cavan. The child in her arms moaned quietly. She shushed it, rocking her arms too and fro. 'You're the girl those knights have been fussing over, aren't you? Is there something I can do for you?'

'I am wearing Dagonet's old shirts and I would very much like some clothes of my own. Perhaps you could give me some tunics, and shirts, and maybe a pair of breeches?'

'Of course I can, my love. Maro, if you could take Ines for me, and I'll get your measurements and find you some clothes to fit.' Levin pulled out a tape and stretched it against Cavan's arms, waist, chest and legs, noting the numbers down. 'Now, are you sure you don't want a few dresses, as well. I have some beautiful blue linen that would go perfectly with your skin, my love.'

'Maybe one dress, in the style of yours?'

As Levin fussed over her, pulling different tunics, shirts and breeches from various piles in the room and trying them for size against Cavan's frame and the measurements she had taken down, Cavan felt a surge of happiness. She had never felt so looked after in her life. It was lovely to feel that someone cared.

Cavan left Levin's with her arms piled high with clothes. She carried them back to Dagonet's room to find Tristan still asleep in the chair beside the bed. Quietly, she changed into a clean shirt, tunic and breeches, pulled on her boots, and left the room without disturbing her brother. The corridor was still empty – apparently, none of the knights had woken yet.

She set off, with the vague idea of creating a map of the town and buildings, but she got no further than the armoury, which was situated next to the stables. It was full of different swords, longbows, shields and other forms of weaponry. On a table opposite the door was an array of daggers and arrows, piled on top of each other. Cavan saw her blade – the thick dagger with a snake entwined around the hilt – and dug it out. She ran her fingers over the snake, and looked around for some sort of belt that she could store her knife in. Finding one, she tied it tightly around her waist and stuck the dagger in, pointing downwards.

'If you had asked, I probably would have given you those back,' a voice said behind her. She spun round to find Arthur, his eyebrows raised and a smile on his lips.

'I did not mean to come here, I was just trying to make sense of where everything was,' Cavan said hurriedly, blinking. 'And, I did not think you would, after… Gareth.' She looked down.

'I understand. Believe me, I do. You may think I am still angry, but I am not. None of my knights are. Gawain has most cause to be angry but he finds no fault in your living. Dagonet has clearly shown that he wants to do nothing but care for you, and Tristan… Well, Tristan has always been hard to understand, but I know that if the scout no longer has any problem with you, neither should I.'

'That is a very gracious and forgiving act. Are you sure it is what you want to do?' Cavan asked, intrigued.

'If you think I should not – if you were still the assassin who wished to end my life – would you be asking me this? Would you not have seen that I was unarmed, and already pushed that dagger through my neck?' he replied. Cavan realised that she hadn't even checked to see if he had a sword – but then, they were in the middle of the armoury, and the nearest blade was barely a yard away.

'I never was any assassin,' she said, leaning against the table. 'Just some fool convinced by a liar that your death would be the end of my problems.' Arthur put his hand on her shoulder.

'Come, you are no fool. You are just a child, scarred, frightened and far from home, just like the rest of us.'

'I wish I had not come here. I wish I had not done the things I have.' Tears welled up in her eyes. 'I will regret that night until the day that I die.' Arthur stood awkwardly for a few seconds, then spoke again.

'If you would like, I can show you some places on the body that, by simply pressing, you can cause enough pain to induce unconsciousness,' he suggested. Cavan looked up at him through her lashes, and smiled.

'Thank you,' she mumbled, leaning into him. He held her close for a moment, enjoying the sense of protection he felt over her. She was right; she was no longer that hate-filled assassin who had come to his room, but nor was she the frail, tearful child that Dagonet had saved from the brink of death. She seemed to have found herself.


	16. Drown Your Sorrows

**Chapter Sixteen: Drown Your Sorrows**

It was early afternoon when Tristan woke up – he could tell from the sun's position outside the window. The weather was cooling down as the season dragged on into late autumn. However, the world didn't seem to want to let go of the summer heat; there was still the dry tinge in the air that reminded him of the scorching summer days.

Tristan stretched, hardly believing that he had slept so long. He went to his own room and changed into clean clothes – a black undershirt and leather tunic – then went on the hunt for food. In the square outside, Arthur's greyhounds chased each other in circles. Cabal, the larger of the two hounds, leapt up at Tristan and tried to lick his face. Tristan kicked it aside; he cared nothing for dogs.

Fabius was busy in the kitchens, but he had left out food, anticipating Tristan's early-morning hunt for nourishment. The bread was slightly hard, having been left in the open air for a few hours, but the apples were fine and tasted sweet. He visited Maura in the stables and was surprised to see there a stallion that he did not recognise. It was pale grey with dappled flanks that shone with the tell-tale signs of a recent brush. The horse was male, and tall, with a long mane and tail. He was clearly no war horse, but neither was he a petted docile creature straight from a lady's stable. As Tristan fetched Maura some milk oats and gave her a quick brush down, he wondered where the horse could have come from.

'Hello, Tristan,' came a soft voice from behind him. He turned to find Cavan smiling at him, wearing a pale linen shirt and a deep red tunic over it. Her ebony hair was coiled tightly at the back of her head, secured with a three-inch-long cloak pin that she had thieved from Dagonet's chest; however, strands had come loose and they hung down beside her face, framing her angular chin and cheekbones. 'I was thinking of going for a ride,' she continued, crossing to the dappled grey and winding her fingers in his mane.

'He is yours?' Tristan asked. He suddenly remembered the day that his sister had arrived in the town, and he had followed her – she had been riding that very horse.

'Falada,' Cavan said. 'His name is Falada.' She saddled her horse and bridled him, then led him out of the stables, followed by Tristan, who had wordlessly prepared Maura for a ride and climbed into her saddle already. Lancelot was outside, leaning against the wall with Gawain and Dagonet. They all had cups of wine in their hands, but none of them seemed to be drinking. Over the street, Vanora's tavern was already bustling with soldiers, men folk and children – mainly Bors' offspring. As Cavan came out of the stable, Gawain saw her and pushed himself into a standing position.

'You're riding out?' he asked. Lancelot raised his eyebrows at the dagger in Cavan's belt, and they moved even higher as his eyes turned to the tall horse beside her – whose head reached above hers.

'Are you sure you can get on that thing?' Lancelot mocked her, his lilting voice arrogant. Ignoring him, Cavan put one foot in the stirrup and slid onto Falada's back smoothly.

'Oh, it's not that hard. I'm sure that, with practise, you'll be able to do it yourself one day too.' As Gawain and Dagonet roared with laughter at the look on Lancelot's face, Cavan dug in her heels and her horse launched himself forwards. Finding her balance with him, she pushed Falada onwards, past Vanora's and out of the fort.

After about thirty minutes of galloping through the grass at parallel with the wall, Cavan slowed Falada down to a gentle walk. Tristan drew level with her and slowed too. His cheeks were slightly pink and there was sweat on his forehead. They travelled together for a while, in a comfortable silence, broken suddenly by Tristan.

'I do not know what to say.'

'You don't need to say anything, Tristan.' She smiled at him. 'Silence comes, for people like us, as naturally as - showing off does for people like Lancelot. It's nothing to be ashamed of,' she continued.

'I just feel that we should be catching up the years we have missed,' Tristan said awkwardly.

'Brother, there is nothing about my past that you would enjoy hearing about,' Cavan laughed. However, the look in her sea-green eyes showed that she was physically afraid of dredging up those memories.

'I understand, but I still feel –' he started, but Cavan cut him off.

'Tristan, can we not just start anew from this point?' she asked, her voice a little offhand.

'Of course.' They rode the rest of their journey in a pleasant, comfortable silence, taking a wide circle through the forest and then back round to the fort. As they drew closer to the wall, Tristan caught a faint hint of burning in the air. He gazed around, wondering what it was that could cause the bitter odour. On the horizon, a thick column of black smoke rose into the air, thin tendrils catching in the wind. Reigning in Maura, he squinted at the smoke, trying to discern the origin of the burning. Cavan had noticed that he had stopped; she turned Falada and then caught sight of what her brother was looking at.

'Shall I come?' she asked, instinctively knowing that Tristan was going to go and try to find whatever it was that was burning. Tristan shook his head, and motioned towards the fort.

'Go back,' he said quietly. Maura, sensing her rider's discomfort, shuffled anxiously. Tristan dug in his heels. Cavan watched the two of them canter away, and a strange fear filled her stomach. What was the source of the fire? And if Tristan went alone, would he come back?

* * *

'Don't worry about it,' Gawain said, leaning against on of the supporting beams in the stable. 'Tristan is the best of us, in that, if he knows that a situation is too much for him, he will pull himself out.'

'I am still worried for him,' she replied as she brushed Falada's flanks. Gawain frowned.

'Why do you care so much?' he asked, suddenly angry. 'Tristan almost killed you! Or have you forgotten that already?' Cavan watched, mouth open, as he stormed from the stables.

'And I have forgiven him!' she shouted after him. Falada snorted and flipped his mane, agitated.

'He is right,' an accented voice said behind her. Lancelot's curly brown hair fell over his eyes as he stepped forwards. He continued, 'Tristan was so close to killing you.'

'I know!' Cavan spat. 'I was there, I remember!' Lancelot gazed at her, confused.

'So why do you care for him now, more than ever?' he asked.

'Things… change,' Cavan mumbled, turning back to Falada. She pulled the cloak pin out of her hair and let it tumble down her back, then rested her head on Falada's neck.

'What has happened between you to make you feel this way?' Lancelot was incredulous. 'Surely he does not deserve your forgiveness!'

'I know he does not deserve my forgiveness. But he has it, all the same.'

'I do not understand, but I will accept what you say. As long as you rid yourself of this melancholy and come to Vanora's with me,' Lancelot offered in a vague attempt to cheer her up. Almost immediately, Cavan smiled at him and lay down the brush she had been using. She went to tie her hair up again, but Lancelot reached out and stopped her. 'It looks lovely down,' he said.

They walked together, out of the stables and towards Vanora's, which was already heaving. The evening was fast approaching and the occupants of the town and fort had laid down their weapons and tools for the day, turning instead to Vanora's taproom and the company to be found there.

Lancelot led Cavan to a table in the square outside the tavern. Around it sat Galahad, Gawain and Bors. Dagonet was seated with a woman across the square. There were two large pitchers in the centre of the table, with several clay cups in various stages of emptiness scattered over the surface of the table. The knights were all laughing at a Roman soldier a few tables away who was flirting hopelessly with one of Vanora's girls.

Lancelot slipped into a seat and invited Cavan to sit beside him. She did, and soon Bors had poured her a cup of wine from one of the pitchers. Lancelot looked over at the Roman soldier they were mocking and frowned.

'That's Hani, isn't it?' he asked, grinning. The girl in question had thick, reddish brown hair, braids hidden in the tumbling mass. Her eyes were pale blue and she had full, rounded lips. She wore a dark blue front-tying bodice over a paler long-sleeved dress. She must have been only sixteen or seventeen. As they watched, the soldier pulled her down to sit on his lap and tried to kiss her. She lifted up the pitcher of ale she had been holding and brought it crashing down onto his head. The men around her and almost everyone else in the square roared with laughter at the sight of the soldier so humiliated. The girl stood up and turned her back on him, picked up another pitcher and carried on with her work as though nothing had happened.

'I wouldn't, if I were you,' said Galahad to Lancelot. 'That's the third time she's done that tonight.' Lancelot poured himself a drink, staring thoughtfully at the girl named Hani.

Across the square, Dagonet and the woman he was seated with were involved in a deep conversation. The sight of the large knight so animated caused a smile to come to Cavan's lips.

'Who is that?' she asked of Galahad.

'Helsin,' he replied. 'The fort's healer.' Cavan thought that, if the fort had a healer, why had she not been treated by them? When she put the question to Galahad, though, he seemed hesitant to answer.

'Helsin is one of the only people who knows about what happened the night you came here,' he said quietly.

'She refused to treat you when she found out,' Gawain said. 'It was understandable – she and Gareth were very close.'

Cavan looked down into her cup. She agreed with Gawain – it was understandable that woman would hate her. However, seeing Dagonet with Helsin had revealed another emotion to her that she had had almost no experience with: jealousy.

She turned back to Gawain, removing Dagonet and Helsin from her sight, and downed her cup in one. Bors saw her knock it back and grinned, refilling her cup. She thanked him.

'Drown our sorrows?' he offered. Cavan nodded, smiling, and they both gulped down their wine. She wanted to drink until she couldn't remember anything, and then drink some more.

* * *

Cavan woke up early the next morning to a pounding head. She sat up, groaning, and realised she had fallen asleep on Gawain. He was still snoring, as well as Bors – who lay on the floor – and Galahad, who was asleep on the table, surrounded by empty pitchers and cups.

She staggered to the water trench and dipped her face in, attempting to shock herself back into consciousness. It was freezing. Filling a pitcher, Cavan gulped down the icy liquid. It helped to dispel some of her splitting headache. She moaned and sat down on the floor. The world was spinning.

'Are you alright?' someone asked extremely loudly. Cavan cradled her throbbing head, trying to ignore the loud person who was asking her stupid questions. Suddenly an arm slid around her waist and she was being helped up. 'Let's get you up,' said the loud voice. Her stomach churned and the world seemed to fall sideways. 'Sit down just here; I'll bring you a bucket and some food.'

Cavan fell into a chair and laid her head on the table. She badly needed to be sick. The voice's promise of food had only worsened the over-powering need to vomit her stomach out. She closed her eyes and only opened them once the voice was back and forcing her to eat something that smelled like wine and salt.

'Eat it, and then you can be sick, and then you'll feel better, I promise,' the voice coaxed her. Willingly, Cavan opened her mouth and swallowed the salty food obediently. The voice put more in her mouth and she swallowed again. There was a rushing in her head and she felt hot and then she was violently sick into the bucket by her feet.

'Feel better?' the voice asked. Cavan shook her head, and vomited again. She could feel someone holding her hair. Coughing, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. The world blurred and then sharpened. The owner of the voice looked down on her with kind, blue eyes: a girl of about sixteen, with dark reddish-brown hair and full lips. Cavan stared at her, frowning, trying to remember where she had seen the girl before.

'Are you alright?' the girl asked.

'Yes, actually,' she replied, surprised. She did feel better – her headache had abated slightly and her stomach was no longer churning. 'I'm sorry, but who are you?'

'My name is Hani. I work with Vanora.'

'Of course – you were here last night. You hit a soldier with a jug,' Cavan giggled. Hani laughed.

'They're all pigs, those soldiers. Think every girl should just lie down and let them have their way – and enjoy it, mind!' Hani said, her voice sharp. Then she turned back to Cavan. 'Now you're feeling better, would you like some proper breakfast?'

Cavan was digging into a bowl of honeyed porridge when Arthur came into the square, wearing a shirt and leather pants, his sword in his hand. His hair was wet and his tanned skin shiny. The greyhounds were at his heels, yapping.

'Cavan,' Arthur said hurriedly. 'Have you seen Gawain or Galahad?'

She replied by pointing to the table around which the knights still snored. Arthur rolled his eyes. 'What perfect timing.'

'Is something wrong?' Cavan asked, a little worried.

'There has been word from Tristan. Dagonet has already left, with Lancelot and Helsin.'

'What has happened?'

'A village – about five miles away – attacked by Woads. There are many dead – only a few are left alive. That is all Tristan told us,' he explained. 'Will you come?'


	17. Dagonet's Blade

**Chapter Seventeen: Dagonet's Blade**

The town looked like a carcass; it's burnt, blackened bones stood erect under the sun. There was nothing left – just the skeleton of the huts, ripped cloth and burnt bodies. Arthur and Cavan rode silently into the wreckage, gazing around with horror at the remains of what once was a village. They passed a water trough, its surface black with ash. The burnt remains of two chickens were half-submerged in the water.

Tristan appeared, signalling to Cavan from a little way off – just outside the village's parameter. She slid off Fagan and went to her brother's side. There was a boy lying on the ground in front of him, a sword wound splitting open his chest. It was a wonder he was still alive.

'I just found him,' Tristan said. He pulled a linen bandage from the saddlebags at his feet and tied it round the boy's torso, attempting to hold the wound together. Blood seeped through the linen.

'They… came from the mists…' the boy coughed.

'Hush,' Cavan soothed him. 'Just lay back.'

He shook his head. 'Men… swords and anger.' Breath hitched in his throat.

'Woads?'

'Not the… blue… devils,' he gasped, '…or Romans.' The boy's hand twitched, and his eyes widened, then they closed and his arms went limp. He had died.

'If it was not the Woads and it was not the Romans, then who…?' Cavan asked. Tristan shook his head in reply. He did not know.

'There is another alive!' a voice shouted from behind the smoke. Arthur appeared, his hair messy and his hands covered in soot. He led Tristan and Cavan past the blackened, crumbling buildings, to where Dagonet was bent over another body. The clothes had been partially burnt off and what could be seen of the flesh – arms and hands – were red with burns.

'We need to get her back to the fort,' Dagonet said hurriedly. Cavan looked again at the body and saw that it was a woman, with blonde hair and pale skin. Looking down at the scorched flesh, she felt a surge of pity for her. Cavan herself had once been in that position, when she was younger, caught in the fire that destroyed her village and killed her family. She still had the burns over her abdomen to remind her every day of the horror she had faced – as the woman being lifted up onto Dagonet's horse would have. Cavan mumbled a quick prayer to God that this woman would not suffer as she had.

Tristan was stood by Maura, a frown adorning his features. Cavan saw this and was worried.

'Is it something I can help with?' she asked him gently. He shook his head curtly in reply. She turned away but stopped when Tristan spoke.

'She reminds me of you.' He paused, but then the next words came out in a rush. 'Why have you forgiven me so quickly?' Cavan moved to his side and put her arm against his, their wrists together. The veins stood out against their cold skin, mirror copies.

'Our blood is the same. All that I have bled, I know that you have the same wounds. The pain you have caused me – I can see it in your eyes. You feel that pain too,' she whispered. 'God shows mercy to those who are merciful – to be forgiven by him for my sin, I must too forgive those who have sinned against me.'

'Does this element of your faith apply to the man who enslaved you?' Tristan said scornfully. Cavan did not answer. Her jaw tightened and she turned away, mounting Falada. Tristan watched in an ashamed silence as his sister rode away, her back straight and the knuckles of her hands white. He had regretted the words the second they had come out of his mouth. He had no conviction in the idiotic Roman religion, but he knew he had no right to question his sister's beliefs. Shaking his hair from his eyes, Tristan mounted Maura and spurred her forward. He had not washed for days and the smell of sweat – once so sweet – was now bitter and unpleasant. Pointing his horse towards the forest where he bathed, Tristan emptied his head of the painful thoughts and turned his mind instead to the cool water and green leaves of his hidden lake.

* * *

Somewhere outside, the sun was rising slowly. The seasons were turning, summer fast fading away into colourless grey skies and cold winds, and the days were getting shorter. Trees were beginning to lose their leaves; everything reeked of loss. The colour seemed to be slowly draining from the world as the cold season approached. However, the air still felt full, as if humidity was not yet willing to let go. All around was the sharp scent of rain, but none fell from the pale clouds above. Everything had slowed down; the bustling heat of summer had finally gone.

Cavan surveyed the misty sky with apprehension. Weather like this seemed to be undecided – not storming, but still with a hint that it was possible – and it instilled a sense of discomfort in her. She was leaning on the window sill in her room, feeling the slight breeze ripple through her hair. It was still quite early, and yet Cavan was finding sleep difficult. The last words her brother had said to her were echoing round her head. '_Does this element of your faith apply to the man who enslaved you?_' He had been disdainful – but why? Why was he so offended that she had chosen a different faith to him? And why did he have to bring Evin's name into it? Did he not understand that what Evin had done to her was unforgivable?

'God, damn that man!' she cried, pushing herself from the window sill. How dare he question her faith? How _dare_ he bring Evin's name into their conversation?

'Tristan?' a voice asked, breaking Cavan's angry contemplation. She spun round to find Gawain leant against the doorpost, a cup in his hand. 'Are you talking about Tristan?' he repeated.

'I can't fathom how that is possibly _any_of your business,' she replied angrily. Gawain looked a bit stunned to see her so irate.

'I'm sorry,' he backtracked. Then he frowned. 'May I ask you something?'

'You can ask.'

'Why have you forgiven Tristan for what he did to you?' he asked quietly.

'Why did you forgive me for murdering your brother?' she replied.

'That's completely different –' Gawain started, but Cavan cut him off.

'It's exactly the same!' she exclaimed, her Irish accent growing more pronounced as she grew more irate. 'Worse, even! I killed your brother – Tristan only hurt me. And he knew nothing of our relationship then.'

'You and Tristan have a relationship?' Gawain asked incredulously. Cavan shook her head, looking at the floor.

'That's not what I meant. It's just… I can understand what he did. He did what he had to do, and I cannot question that. But what I don't understand is why you forgave me so quickly!'

'You regret it,' he mumbled.

'Of course I do! I regret every wound I have caused, every drop of blood I have spilt. And Gareth is no different. He should be alive right now, and happy, and revelling in the life that lay before him – but I have ended that. It is as though I hate myself for losing the life that I should have had, and when I see other people enjoying that life, I hate them, too,' she said, confused. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Gawain took two steps towards her, pushing his blond hair from his worried blue eyes.

'It is not your fault. That life was ripped from you when you were seven. I understand, I do,' he replied, softly.

'How do you understand?' Cavan sat down on the bed, running her fingers through her hair.

'I was taken from my family when I was ten. My father had kept it from me. The day the Romans came to our village, I didn't know why there were there. Then they asked for me by name, and I was so scared. This life,' he motioned around the room, 'is all I know now. Home is just a distant memory now; I have forgotten most of it.'

Cavan looked up at him, and he smiled tenderly.

'I suppose we are more alike than I first thought, Sir Gawain,' Cavan said. 'We are both scarred by our pasts, both so far from home.'

Gawain sat down beside her. She could hear his breath flowing in and out of his lungs. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as the sun painted the wall behind them a pale yellow. Then, slowly, Gawain reached out and took Cavan's hand in his. She felt his rough skin, the calloused palms, felt his warm fingers curl around hers.

'Tristan means more to me than you can ever understand,' Cavan mumbled softly. Gawain let go of her hand and stood up.

'Of course he does,' Gawain said scathingly. 'Nemain, give me strength!' he begged of his Pagan goddess, turning and stalking from the room.

'Gawain, wait!' she cried. Cavan ran out into the corridor, but the blond-headed Sarmatian had already disappeared from sight. 'Damn you, Cavan, keep your mouth shut next time, you stupid girl!' she hissed to herself, shaking her head and going back into her room. She slammed the door shut behind her.

She didn't understand why she was suddenly so angry at Gawain. And why had he taken her hand? His touch had made her shiver – but why was this happening, now of all times? Cavan had finally become free of her life with Evin, and now a new man threatened to destroy everything. She knew she couldn't be happy – with Evin, it had started with pain and ended with pain, with nothing of joy in between except those rare nights when he was gentle. No man was different. All they wanted was satiation of their passions by a woman – willing or no.

Cavan ran her fingers over her throat, where the pale, crescent-moon-shaped scars had been bitten into her skin by her former owner. Who was she to believe she deserved better than all that pain? All she knew was misery and darkness. And as the tears dripped from her chin, she knew that it was all she deserved. Evin was the man who had marked her, who had made her his own. He had beaten her into the woman she was and she found that being away from him was affecting her in a way she did not understand.

Cavan had thought that when she sliced open his chest with her blade, that she would finally be rid of him. But Evin's death had simply revealed to her the magnitude of the impact he had had on her life. Her body was covered in scars, from the bite marks on her neck to the slave's brand on her arm – the one that pronounced her servitude to Evin – and they were all his. It was not her body anymore. It was Evin's. Dead or no, he was still part of her life – a part that she would never be rid of.

As Cavan realised this, a sense of hopelessness and emptiness washed over her. She lay back onto the bed and closed her eyes. Suddenly, there was no reason to live anymore. There was no reason to be happy. Neither of those things would erase the marks that Evin had made on her.

Grasped with an unexpected purpose, Cavan threw herself across the room to the chest where Dagonet's clothes were stored. At the bottom, there was a knife – small, but sharp. She ripped off her tunic and shirt until she sat on the floor wearing a breast band and breeches. The skin of her upper left arm was free from the burns that covered her torso but it had its own mark – the slave brand of Evin Larsen's estate. A large X with the two upper lines connected in a circle, with the letter E within the circle. Running her fingers over the ridged skin, she remembered with cold fear the day that the red-hot iron had been put on her skin. She could smell the odour of her burning flesh even know, ten years after it had happened. And the pain, the degradation, the feeling of being owned, of thinking, 'I am his.' She remembered the way that Evin had watched them all – a teenager, already with the power of life and death over hundreds of people. But they were no longer people. They no longer mattered. They were slaves. And no-one cared about them.

Anger boiled in her stomach – she encouraged it. Cavan let it consume her and slice her insides with razor-sharp needles. Gripping Dagonet's knife tightly in her right hand, she stuck it into her arm where Evin's brand was. Tugging the blade across her skin, she released a line of blood through the brand that bubbled over and spilled down her arm. She watched the red rivulets run over her pale flesh like tears, and felt the anger dissipate. The knife slipped from her fingers and clanged onto the floor, drops of blood flicking in a pattern over the wood. The helplessness returned. Cavan was numb, her hands shook. Her life was pooling out of the slit in her arm. She could smell the metal and bitterness of it, could taste it on her tongue. She lay back on the floor and smiled. Her last act of defiance against Evin. Her last act on the Earth. Her last act.


	18. Cavan's Gift

**Chapter Eighteen: Cavan's Gift**

'Do you think she meant to kill herself?' Arthur asked, his voice deep.

'She can't have known that the artery curves over the arm right there. It was clear she was cutting through the brand – but the depth of the cut makes it look as though she meant to do it,' Dagonet replied. 'I don't understand what she was doing.'

Suddenly there was a rushing sound and a man ran into the room, tangled blond hair flying everywhere and his cornflower-blue eyes pale with shock. He pushed past Dagonet and fell to his knees beside the bed. The two other men backed slowly from the room.

'Cavan?' Gawain murmured. There was no reply from the still body in the bed. She looked frail and – he could barely think it – on the brink of death. The colour had been drained from her skin; it was almost porcelain white. Her eye sockets were like two dark bruises, ink-spots, spreading over the eyelids and down to the cheekbones. Cavan's chest was covered by the blanket that was pulled up to her armpits, but her arms lay on top of the covers.

Gawain took her hand. It was deathly cold.

'Please, tell me you won't die,' he begged, his face ashen as he looked down on her. 'This is my fault. I should never have gotten angry. Please, Cavan, forgive me. I was so stupid!'

He kissed her fingers, holding her hand against his cheek. Gazing at her motionless form, Gawain laid his head on the bed beside her hip, closing his eyes. He breathed shallowly, mouthing the words of a prayer to Memir, the pagan god of healing. In time, as the sun began to set over the fort, Gawain succumbed to his worry and fell into a twisted sleep beside Cavan.

He woke the next morning when Dagonet came in to the room.

'Has there been any change?' the healer asked. Gawain shook his head in response, rubbing his tired eyes. Dagonet leant over Cavan's body and checked her neck for signs of a pulse. He noticed her skin had grown warmer – it was a good sign, for it meant that there was more blood in her veins than before. 'If the cut stays closed, she should be awake by tomorrow. Will you stay with her today?'

'Of course,' Gawain replied. 'Do you know where Tristan is yet? I think he should know.'

'I have not seen him since the day we went out to Yoren when it was burning. He rode off and disappeared. It's been two days. He'll be back; it's not unlike our scout to be alone.'

'Yea, I agree. How is the girl we brought back from Yoren?' asked Gawain.

'Walking around, but silent as the grave. Her burns are awful; she stares at them like they are not a part of her…' Dagonet lowered his eyes and shook his head helplessly. 'I do not know how to help her.' After a few moments of silence, the Roxolani healer reached down and smoothed Cavan's thick black hair with tenderness in his eyes, then turned and left the room.

Gawain turned back to Cavan. Her eyelids were still deep purple. She looked peaceful. He imagined she was at peace. When you are unconscious, the last thing you think about is your waking life – it's just blackness. Gawain knew that from experience. He took Cavan's hand again, caressing the soft skin with his rough fingers.

Suddenly Cavan stirred. Then she screamed. Gawain grabbed her shoulder, holding her down on the bed.

'Hush, Cavan. You're safe, I'm here!'

'Gawain?' she mumbled, scared. 'I can't see. It's so black! Tell me I'm not back there, tell me, please!'

'Open your eyes, Cavan. You can see if you open your eyes.'

She blinked and her sparkling green eyes opened. Gawain had not realised before, but they were flecked with pale gold. Beautiful eyes.

Cavan looked down at her arm, at the bandage that was wrapped around the top of it. She ran her fingers over the pale cloth, then looked up at Gawain, guilt on her face.

'He was all over me, the marks he made… I had to cut him off me – I had to!' she gasped. 'I could feel him, he told me I was his forever, wherever I went, he would still be there, cut and burned into my skin. I couldn't… I couldn't!'

'Hush, he's dead, there's nothing he can do to you anymore,' Gawain soothed her.

'I am nothing without him. He is all I ever was. I am nothing,' Cavan repeated. She started crying, tears falling thick and fast from under her bruised eyelids. 'I am nothing, I am nothing.'

Gawain climbed onto the bed and lay beside Cavan, taking her into his arms and letting her sob into his chest. Gently, he stroked her coal-black hair, twining his fingers in the soft curls. She kept murmuring the three words that caused such pain in his heart, repeating them over and over.

'Cavan?' Gawain whispered eventually, as her voice grew silent and her breathing deepened. He felt her hands move on his chest, rubbing against his tunic. As her hand slipped over the cloth, the skin beneath it tingled softly. He shivered.

Reaching over with his free arm, he pushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She gazed at him, her eyes shinning with apprehension and – was it? – desire. Cursing the Gods that had caused him to feel this way, Gawain let his finger caress her cheek, lightly following the curve of the bone down to her lip. He felt her tremble at their closeness. Suddenly very aware of the taut thigh pressed against his leg and the warm breasts beside his arm, he slipped from the bed and ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide.

'What am I doing?' Gawain asked himself. His mind churned – _she is just a child, _he thought.

'Gawain?' Cavan asked, sitting up in the bed and letting the covers fall from her. She wore a breast band and linen breeches, her feet and stomach bare. Gawain turned back to her and could not help flinching as he saw the burns over her collarbone. Cavan saw the movement and her eyes dropped. Then Gawain reached out his hand and laid it on her burned skin. She looked up, and he smiled at her.

'The burns are not your fault. We all have scars,' he said, his voice soft. 'Yours are as beautiful as mine.' Gawain lifted up his tunic and revealed the lines down his torso. Cavan let her hand trail over his muscled chest and the raised marks that were caused by his own brother. She felt Gawain shiver as she touched him; the feeling caused desire to rise unbidden in her belly. She removed her hand, and Gawain dropped his tunic and frowned, as though he wanted her to continue.

'I should dress,' she muttered. Cavan had been completely naked in front of a man before, and it didn't bother her in the slightest, but she felt that modesty was the best policy when alone in a room with a man – especially when someone could come in at any minute. At least, with Evin, none of the slaves dared enter whilst he was in there, so they were not interrupted any time that the mood took him and he forced her into his bed.

'Of course,' Gawain replied. 'I'll just sit here and wait.' Cavan scowled at him, but he just grinned as he made himself comfortable on the bed.

She turned to the chest and dug inside it for a new tunic. As she searched through the clothes, her fingers brushed over a soft fabric, which was unusual, as all the clothes were linen, and quite rough. It felt almost like silk between her fingers. Cavan pulled it out of the chest, revealing a dress of almost Greek style – it looked like a _peplos. _She slipped it over her head and took off the breeches underneath, making sure Gawain couldn't see her legs. The dress fell to the floor like water, almost floating around her frame.

It was basically a large rectangle of silk, folded in half with a slit for the head. It drew a sharp line over Cavan's collarbone – thankfully hiding the burns – and fell almost straight down to the ground. Holes had been cut from the arms, held together with small brooches. It looked – and felt – very expensive. It must have cost much more than a knight in service could afford.

'What is Dagonet doing with a dress like this in his chest?' Cavan asked incredulously, turning to Gawain with a fistful of the cloth clutched in her hand.

'I don't care,' he replied, eyes wide. 'Whatever the reason he had it, it doesn't change the fact that you look beautiful.'

Cavan blushed. She twisted her hair into a loose plait and let it hang over her shoulder, securing the end with a small brooch-pin, then turned back to the chest, mumbling something about slippers. In the very bottom, there was a pair of soft leather sandals. She pulled them on and wiggled her toes experimentally. They were comfortable, and fit her perfectly.

They were the type of clothes she was used to – for ten years Evin had made her wear Greek- and Roman-style dresses and shoes – and she had to admit, they were much comfier than breeches and shirts, but less suited for riding.

Suddenly realising that this was the first time she had worn a dress in about eight months, Cavan spun around, revelling in the feel of the soft fabric on her skin.

'Stop laughing at me!' she snapped playfully at Gawain, as he collapsed onto the bed in fits of hysterics. 'You should try wearing a dress – it's freeing!'

He raised an eyebrow in response, smirking as he raked his eyes up her slender form. She caught his gaze and hit his chest with her fist. Gawain caught her arm and pulled her closer, embracing her in a hug. They stood like that for a few moments, before Cavan whispered in his ear, breaking the silence.

'Why don't we visit Gareth?' she said cautiously, anticipating a negative response. But Gawain nodded and breathed into her hair.

'The cemetery is quite a way,' he replied. 'Can you even get on a horse in that dress?' Cavan could hear the smile in his voice.

Together, they left the room, walking slowly down the corridor. Outside, it was misty and overcast, but there were still remnants of summer's heat in the air. Thankful for this, Cavan took Gawain's arm, feeling the muscles beneath her fingers flex slightly at each movement.

Suddenly, a thought struck her.

'I have no gift for Gareth,' she said.

'Would you like to give him something? I expect that your presence alone will be a gift enough for him,' Gawain replied, rubbing her hand with his.

'If we went to Vanora's – where my room was – I could get him something from there. I know the perfect thing.'

They changed their direction slightly, heading instead towards the tavern, instead of the stables. The courtyard was nearly empty – most of the knights were in the training squares and the working men of the fort and town were labouring. But it was quite early in the morning – it was to be expected.

'Well, if you don't look lovely,' a voice drawled from behind them.

'Piss off, Lancelot,' said Gawain, without even looking round. He kept walking, with Cavan grinning beside him. However, Lancelot didn't give up. He caught up with them and took Cavan's other arm.

'I mean it, my lady. Attractive is, in this case, a dire understatement,' he said. They crossed the courtyard and went into the taproom. Cavan saw Hani washing cups and pitchers behind a half-closed door in the taproom. She felt Lancelot let go of her arm and whispered a sarcastic 'good luck' as he slipped through the door to flirt with the red-headed barmaid.

'This way.' She led Gawain to the room she had stayed in for one night when she had first arrived at the fort. The door was locked, but Cavan wasn't fazed by it. She pulled the brooch pin from her braid and stuck it into the lock, twisting it this way and that until she heard a satisfactory _click_. Turning to Gawain, whose eyebrows were raised so high they were unseen behind his fringe, Cavan put the pin back into her hair with a grin, and pushed the door. It creaked open.

'Welcome to my humble abode,' she said sardonically, gesturing into the room.

Everything was just where she had left it, except with the one change of a thin layer of dust laying on every surface. Cavan reached over and picked up an iron box, with an Irish design carved into the lid. It was full of jewellery and coinage. Pushing aside the top layer of riches, she gently pulled out a thin chain with a blue pendant on the end. It was in the shape of a cross, with a large 'A' carved into it.

Happy, Cavan clipped the lid shut and put the box on the bed. She turned round and showed the necklace to Gawain, who took it in his fingers and smiled.

'A gift?' he wondered aloud.

'From Lucius. The only Roman I ever trusted.'

'And what about Arthur?' Gawain asked, cocking an eyebrow.

'He's not a Roman. Arthur is too human to be a Roman,' she replied quietly.

'Do you really hate them that much?'

'How can I not? My whole life has been dictated by Romans. Every Roman I have met has caused me pain. They burned down my village, killed my family, sold me into slavery, imprisoned me… And the worst one of all. Evin was a Roman.' Her voice was filled with spite, but her eyes echoed the years of pain she had been subjected to.

'Come, let us go and visit my brother.' Gawain offered her his hand, and she took it. He rubbed her palm with his rough-skinned thumb and led her through the door and down the stairs.

They went to the stables, where Gawain tied Arican's reins round his neck and slid onto his back. Cavan grabbed his arm and jumped up into his lap, sitting with both her legs on one side of the horse.

'I don't have a saddle big enough for two,' Gawain said, slipping his arm round her waist. 'You don't mind, do you?'

'Let's see how I feel when the horse starts moving and I fall straight off the side!' she giggled back.

'Oh, don't worry, I'll hold on to you nice and tight.'

Gawain spurred on the horse, one hand tied in the reins, the other tight round Cavan's waist. She leant back into him as they galloped through the town and out of the gates, where Gawain slowed Arican to a brisk walk.

'I have never been to the cemetery before. Is it far?' she asked of Gawain. He let go of her waist to point at a red flag rippling in the wind, about half a mile away. It was just discernable through the mist. As they grew closer, more flags came into view, fluttering gently, their ends tattered from years of exposure to the elements.

Gawain pulled gently on Arican's reins and the horse stopped, snorting quietly. A group of Romans in full armour marched past them, heading towards the fort. Cavan jumped off Arican, followed by Gawain. He whispered to his horse to stay put, and took Cavan's hand. Together they climbed the hill to where the flags stood, their poles firmly embedded in the ground; the flags were surrounded by the raised lumps of the graves, marked by swords and armour.

As they walked slowly past each grave, Gawain whispered the name of the knight who lay under the earth.

'Ector, Callan, Agravaen, Saer, Engres – he was of my tribe – and Gareth.'

Gareth's grave stood out – the soil was dark, and fresh. A long, serrated sword stuck out of the ground beside the grave, saluting the sky. Gawain knelt beside the sword and bowed his head over the grave; Cavan kept back, understanding that the knight needed a few moments alone with his brother.

'My brother,' Gawain murmured. 'I miss you.'

Cavan put her hand on his shoulder, and he took her hand in his, standing back from the grave.

'Gareth,' Cavan said, twisting the necklace she had brought round her fingers. She leant down and tied it to the sword hilt, letting the pendant clink softly against the metal. 'A gift to guide you through the darkness, and give you hope. Please forgive me.'

As they left the cemetery, Cavan gazed one last time at the grave of the second man she had murdered. 'Bí i síocháin,' she whispered, the words slipping easily from her lips. A breeze swept through Cavan's hair, bringing the scent of pinewood and smoke to her nostrils. It sighed and moaned at the sight of the graves, as though grieved by what it saw, and rushed away, leaving Cavan standing, shivering, surrounded by dead men.

**The words Cavan speaks at the end are Irish. It means 'be in peace.'**

**Please review, it makes me really ecstatic to know that people actually read this crap. But thanks, in advance.**


	19. Irri

**Chapter Nineteen: Irri**

Hani looked up and scowled as Lancelot slipped through the door to the kitchen. Lancelot grinned at the look on her face and leant back against the wall.

'I have better things to do than listen to your flirting, Lancelot,' she snapped, her arms elbow-deep in the water.

'Like what?' he asked mockingly. 'Washing up cups? Yes, I must admit, it does look awfully exciting.'

Hani ignored him, focussing her attention on the soapy water before her. She had been washing up pitchers and goblets for almost an hour already and her fingers were wrinkly from the water. She had to admit, it was dreadfully dull.

She turned to Lancelot and dried her hands on his tunic. He looked affronted but grinned all the same, enjoying the feel of her skin so close to his.

'You don't happen to have any of Vanora's stew left over from last night, do you?'

Hani rolled her eyes. 'Men. Slaves to their bellies,' she said scornfully, turning around. But she picked up a bowl from the table in the centre of the kitchen and spooned a large helping of meat stew into it for Lancelot. Handing it back to him, she said, 'Go sit in the courtyard. I'll bring you some honeyed wine.'

Lancelot left the kitchen, smirking, and took a seat at a table just outside of the taproom. He tasted the stew – it was good. Gazing round the silent square, Lancelot was surprised to see a woman seated a few tables away. The tavern was normally silent at this time in a morning – it wasn't even noon.

The woman looked to be about twenty, with long hair, so blonde it was almost white, and skin a soft sugary brown – quite a contrast to her hair. She had her back to Lancelot, so it was hard for him to distinguish any other features, but there was something about her that struck him as odd. Maybe it was that he had never seen her before, or maybe it was the fact that there was a knife stuck in her belt at her hip. But it was not unusual for women to arm themselves as defence from men. Whatever it was, it set Lancelot on edge, and he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that she was dangerous.

_You're being silly, _he told himself. _You're only worried because of what happened with Cavan. _

As he watched, Hani went to the woman's table with a pitcher of wine and poured her some. They spoke a few words and then Hani turned round and approached Lancelot. She set the pitcher of wine down in the centre of the table and went to get some cups. Returning with two cups and another bowl of stew, she took a seat opposite the curly-haired knight and tucked in to her breakfast.

'You know,' Lancelot mused, letting his eyes drift over Hani's chest. 'The stomach isn't the only thing a man is slave to.' He quirked an eyebrow suggestively. Hani ignored him, pouring wine into both cups and taking a sip.

'How's that girl doing?' she asked suddenly.

'You mean Cavan?' he replied, frowning a little.

'Aye, the girl who was here just two nights ago. She got very drunk, poor lass. Friend of Arthur's, I figured – the way he talked to her made 'em seem close.' Her spoon hovered half-way to her mouth.

'Yea, I guess you could say they were friends.' A thought suddenly hit him. 'I heard him say something about family.'

It would be good to have the people around the fort think that Cavan was staying with them because she and Arthur were related, rather than making up their own wild ideas and spreading rumours.

Lancelot finished up his stew and took a long swig of wine.

'This is good,' he said, tilting the cup. 'You made it?'

'Aye. There's a good few barrels in the tap room. Come tonight and you can compare mine and Viviane's,' she smiled.

'I'll stake my life that you're better,' Lancelot predicted, his voice implying that was no longer talking about the wine. Hani rolled her eyes again in response.

'I suppose I was a fool to think we could have a proper conversation without you trying to get me into bed,' she sighed.

'Yes,' Lancelot grinned. 'I suppose you were.'

Hani slapped him lightly on the cheek, picked up their empty bowls and walked towards the kitchen.

'It'll take a good deal more than that,' she shouted over her shoulder, smiling.

Lancelot downed his wine and gazed at her retreating form. 'I certainly hope so,' he said. 'I love a challenge.'

* * *

Dagonet washed his hands and face in the water trough outside the kitchens before entering the warm room. The boys inside – all in deep red togas – were rushing around, their arms laden with trays and bowls, and all manner of foodstuffs, their faces red from the heat.

'Cillén!' he called, seeing the green-eyed boy sitting at the table, shelling peas into a clay bowl. The boy stood up and bowed.

'Breakfast, Sir?' he asked of the tall knight.

'Yea, if it's not too much trouble' Dagonet replied kindly. 'Porridge – and bread, if you have some.'

Cillén ran off into the depths of the kitchen to find the food. A cat meowed loudly at Dagonet's feet and he bent down to stroke it. The cat was black and white, with dusty paws. It purred as he rubbed its ears.  
Cillén returned, with a tray in his hands, on which was balanced a bowl of steaming oat porridge and a hunk of bread. There was also a pitcher of water and two cups on the tray. Expressing his gratitude, Dagonet took the tray and left the kitchens.

As he walked past the training squares, he saw Arthur and Galahad sparring with their fists. It was the one area of fighting that Arthur lacked ability in – bare fist fighting. But he had not been ashamed to admit that it was a weakness – and none of the knights held it against him; in fact they all helped him on his way to mastering the skill.

Bors was no-where to be seen, undoubtedly with Vanora, and Lancelot too was absent. Dagonet wondered, with an ironic smile, which woman in the fort he was pestering this time. Tristan was still gone – he hadn't returned from Yoren. Dagonet was beginning to get worried about his silent friend. Something had happened in the past few days and it seemed to have changed the scout – and not for the better. Perhaps he was just dealing with something, and would soon be back, his normal, aloof self again.

Passing through the gates to the building that housed the knights quarters, Dagonet thought more on what could have caused his friend's uneasiness. In fact, he thought, Tristan had been acting strangely for several days – first the anger at Cavan when she revealed her history, then the day afterwards, when they had smiled at each other across the room. And then they had gone out riding together. Dagonet couldn't understand what the scout was playing at. Was he, in fact, falling for Cavan? No, that couldn't be!

Dagonet was startled out of his reverie when he walked straight into the statue at the bottom of the stairs. Rubbing his shoulder and wincing in pain, he shook his head to wake himself up. _Think about the damned Hyrci later, _he told himself. _You've got a patient to care for!_

He climbed the stairs two at a time and knocked softly on the door to Ector's old room. He waited for a moment, then opened the door.

'I brought some breakfast,' he murmured, as the woman in the bed sat up and yawned. She nodded to him as he set the tray down on the bed, her eyes empty. 'Do you want some help?' Dagonet asked, as she sat unmoving, staring at the food. She shook her head angrily, picking up the bread from the tray and taking a large bite.

Dagonet poured water into both cups and drank from his own. He sat down on the chair beside the bed and watched as the woman ate the porridge.

Her hair was dark blonde and thick; it fell over her shoulders and forehead in a messy bundle, obscuring her eyes, which were a pretty shade of brown. Her lips were full and curved, well-defined with a distinct turning-up of the corners. Dagonet thought she was beautiful.

As she finished the food, washing it down with a large gulp of water, she looked up at Dagonet and her face softened. He took the tray from her lap and put it on the table.

'I need to check your burns,' he said. 'Can I do that?'

She nodded hesitantly, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt she was wearing. Dagonet took her arms in his hands and touched the skin around her wrists – where the worst of the burning had occurred. She flinched as he did so – understandably. The skin was still hot and would cause her pain for a long while.

'In time, the scars will turn white. They will become less noticeable,' he comforted her. She was gazing at her hands with disgust and fear, but as he said this she looked into his eyes, a flicker of hope in her own.

'Will they go?' she croaked. Dagonet raised his eyebrows; he had thought the girl was mute, as she had not spoken before then.

'They will never disappear completely, but they will fade somewhat. For now, this will help.' Out of his pocket, he pulled a small tin of rose balm. 'Rub it into the skin every morning and night. It will soothe the heat,' he explained.

'Thank you.'

'I will get you something to wear,' Dagonet said. He stood up and left the room, returning a few moments later with his arms laden with clothes. 'There are dresses and breeches too – you can choose what to wear.'

He went to leave again, but then turned round, adding as an afterthought, 'I will wait outside, then, if you like, I can show you around the fort.' He paused and the woman nodded. 'What is your name?' he asked.

'Irri,' she replied, smiling. 'My name is Irri.'

* * *

Tristan didn't like being a coward, but he couldn't bring himself to face Cavan. He knew he should apologise for what he said to her – especially for bringing Evin's name into the conversation – but he was so angry at her blind faith. Her and Arthur both – they were so naïve to believe in the Romans' God.

A new religion? Tristan scoffed. How can there be a _new religion_? You cannot just make up Gods on the spot and expect everyone to bow under them.

'Horseshit!' Tristan yelled. 'Bastard Romans. Bastard sister. Bastard life!'

Maura jumped at his angry tone. She was stood a little way off, her reins tied to a tree. Tristan was in his favourite place in Britain – the hidden lake in the woods. He was sat on a rock beside the lake, his feet in the water, his breeches rolled up to his knees. A shiver ran over his bare chest – it was a cold, misty day, but he didn't care. At least it showed him that he could feel something.

It was late morning, but still Tristan couldn't make himself get up and go back to the fort. Cavan would be so angry with him, not just for the argument they had, but also for running away.

_Next time, Tristan,_ he thought, _think before you act. _

'Why do you think she forgave me, eh, Maura?' he asked his horse. 'I nearly killed her. Wanted to, as well. Hurt her.'

Maura snorted in reply. She was tired and hungry. Noticing this, Tristan pulled his feet out of the water and dried them on the grass.

'I promise to not be a coward,' he told her, stroking her muzzle with his dirty fingers. 'Let us go home.'

Maura perked up at this last word, and shuffled her feet in anticipation. Tristan picked up his tunic and slipped it over his head, then pulled on his boots and tied them tight. He mounted Maura and cast one last look over the clearing.

He liked it here. It was peaceful, and quiet, and empty of idiot human beings. It was also pretty – green ferns by the water, yellow and white flowers scattered in the grass, tall trees surrounding the lake, the shafts of sunlight that fell through on warm days. Better than some tavern filled to the brim with inebriated Romans and painted whores that could do nothing but display their flesh.

Tristan yearned for the simplicity of his old life with his tribe in Sarmatia. Waking at dawn, working until sunset, then sleeping. It was all he wanted. No distractions, no Romans, no God. Just men and women, working and living together as friends, not like the women at the fort – in a different bed every night.

Mounting Maura, Tristan let loose a gruff sound of disgust. He couldn't wait to be discharged. Only two years left, he told himself. Two years.

The journey back to the fort was longer than it had to be. Tristan and Maura walked there, so it took over an hour. He was in no hurry to get back. In fact, he could have stayed away forever. But he urged himself to get back, so he could argue with Cavan again and get this pathetic fear out of his system. What he needed was a good fight with some blue-painted Britons. That would release his tension.

Smiling as he envisioned said fight, Tristan found himself passing under the gates into the fort. Maura knew her own way to the stables, so he loosened his grip on her reins and let her lead the way. They entered the stables and Tristan dismounted, removing Maura's tack and brushing her down. When he had finished, she turned her back on him and thrust her face into the feedbag.

As he splashed his face with water from the trough in front of the stalls, a girl entered the stables, her eyes cast upwards at the ceiling. Her hair was very pale, and her skin tanned. She had cold green eyes and a large mouth. She was wearing a plain dress with a tunic over the top, brought in with cord at the waist. Tristan looked up at her, and she gasped when she saw him watching her.

'Sorry, Sir, I was looking for the Lord Artorius,' she said hurriedly, a very sharp accent contorting her words.

Tristan scowled at her, and pointed at the door. The girl turned round and near ran from the stable. Smirking at the amount of fear he could invoke from just one glare, Tristan followed her out and crossed the road to Vanora's.

Gawain and Lancelot were sat at a table with one of Vanora's tap girls. They all three were drinking wine. Tristan nodded to them as he sat down.

'Care to join us in our… frivolities?' Lancelot grinned at him.

'Where's Cavan?' Tristan asked shortly.

'She's gone to get a cloak. Not that it is _any _of your business,' Gawain replied, his voice clipped. Tristan turned to him, angry.

'Actually, it _is _my business, Gawain,' he snapped, pushing himself up and striding away. _Damn that stupid bastard and his infatuation with my sister!_ Tristan thought angrily. He went back into the stables and leant against the door, waiting until the red haze had disappeared from before his eyes.

'You need to control yourself!' he hissed to himself. It was happening more and more frequently – him losing his temper. Especially when Cavan was involved.

_Maybe that is the reason, _he mused. _I'm just protective of her. _Tristan opened his eyes, breathing deeply. He looked across the road at Vanora's courtyard, watching as Cavan came into view, a thick red cloak draped over her shoulders. Underneath, she was wearing a pale blue dress.

His eyes switched to the other side of the courtyard. The blonde-haired girl who had been in the stables was staring at Cavan, eyes wide. As Cavan sat down and turned to Gawain, the blonde girl grinned, a look of satisfaction and triumph on her face. Then she spun on her heel and ran from the courtyard.

Suddenly realising that something was_ very_ wrong, Tristan suck his dagger through his belt and sprinted after the girl. He followed her through the fort, and into the town. She seemed to know where she was going – she took a right and then a sudden left, before emerging into a square that was empty save for a man of about twenty, seated on a white horse. Tristan held back out of instinct, keeping to the shadows of an alleyway.

The girl ran to the horse's side, breathless.

'His whore is here!' she said. The man on the horse smiled grimly.

'He'll be pleased,' he replied. He motioned for the girl to get on the horse, but Tristan pulled out his dagger and threw it at her. It hit her in the leg, just below the knee. She collapsed with a scream. The man on the horse looked around wildly, then jerked on the reins. The horse neighed loudly and cantered from the square. Tristan ran to the girl, who was unconscious. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, then turned round and marched back out of the town towards the fort.

Thinking about the events that he had just witnessed, Tristan had a sudden suspicion that the result of this girl being here would jeopardise all their lives. The last time a girl had shown up unexpectedly, a knight had died. _Let's hope the same does not happen again,_ Tristan wished silently, adding as an afterthought: _Unless it's Lancelot._

**So you guys are still reading this bullshit? Gah, two updates in one day, and I've got ideas overflowing in my mind. Someone won't be sleeping tonight. Please review everyone! Thanks!**


	20. Lie To Her

**Chapter Twenty: Lie To Her**

'Tristan? What are you doing?' Cavan shouted as her brother came into view across the courtyard, a girl flung over his shoulder.

'She was spying,' he replied, ever his brusque self. He ignored every other question thrown his way and stalked off in the direction of the training squares, the unconscious girl's feet hanging limply in front of him. Cavan jumped up from her seat beside Gawain and ran after him, her cloak fluttering around her ankles.

'Tristan!' she yelled at him, whacking his back with her fist. He didn't turn around. 'Tristan!'

Suddenly he spun round. 'What do you want?' he hissed at her. She froze, shocked by the hatred in his voice.

'Why are you angry with me?' Cavan asked quietly. She felt tears come to her eyes but dashed them away.

'I'm not angry. I'm… a coward. But I _need _to find out what is going on. We can talk about us later?' Tristan said, his voice low. He cupped her cheek in his hand, then he spun on his heel and was gone.

Cavan returned to Vanora's courtyard, and took her seat next to Gawain. Hani had disappeared – presumably to supply the customers that were slowly trooping in to the tap room. A few tables had already been filled up by groups of Roman soldiers – obviously on their mess break.

Gawain eyed Cavan warily – she looked a little lost.

'What did Tristan want?' Lancelot asked. 'Did he say anything more about the –' he motioned to his shoulder, '– girl?'

'No. He said he was a coward and that he needed to find out what was going on,' she replied slowly. 'I presume that he went to find Arthur.'

Gawain squeezed her hand, and she turned to him. He smiled.

'I want some wine,' Cavan said unexpectedly.

'Please,' Lancelot insisted. 'Let me do the honours.'

'Only because you want to get a chance to grope on Hani!' Gawain said, grinning at his brother across the table.

'Actually, I hadn't thought of that. But it's not a bad suggestion.'

Cavan laughed and Lancelot winked at her. Now she thought about it, the curly-haired Sarmatian really wasn't bad looking. He had a slightly feminine face, but it suited him, and contrasted nicely with his strong eyes and sharp features. But Cavan had seen the way Hani looked at him – she wasn't interested at all. Or, if she was, she was _very _good at hiding it.

'Lancelot, you know she'll not bed you for the world,' Cavan told him.

'We shall see,' he replied, sliding out of his seat and vanishing into the taproom.

'That man, he really doesn't know when to stop,' Gawain muttered beside her. She turned to him, a grin on her face.

'If the woman you loved said she loved someone more than you, would you let her go?' she asked, her eyebrows raised.

'I know that you're hypothesising, so I can't answer truthfully.'

'You wouldn't, though, would you? You wouldn't stand back and watch as she leapt into the arms of another man.'

'If I truly loved her, I would fight for her. Unless I knew it was better for her to be with the other man,' he replied quietly, his eyes downcast.

'Do you think Lancelot is actually getting me some wine?' Cavan changed the subject unexpectedly.

'I'll go check.'

Gawain stood up and made his way towards the shadowy taproom.

Cavan rubbed her arms, watching Gawain leave. It was just after noon, but the sky showed no sign of clearing, and the sun's attempts to shine through the clouds were futile. It was therefore quite cold – many of the soldiers around her wore cloaks and the townsfolk had on long-sleeved dresses and tunics – and she was thankful for Dagonet's cloak around her shoulders.

Arthur came into the square, saw Cavan, and took a seat beside her.

'How are you feeling?' he asked, his voice caring.

'I'm fine, thank you. I'm sorry about what I did, it was stupid' she responded regretfully. Arthur noticed that when she was angry or upset, the Irish accent in her voice grew more pronounced.

'Not at all. Anything that can give you closure – it is understandable, and expected. What that man did to you – none of here can imagine. We have no right to judge.'

Gawain returned with two cups of wine. He nodded to Arthur and sat down, setting the cups on the table.

'How is the situation between Tristan and the girl he found?' he asked of his commander.

'He is with her now. Galahad is there. I told Tristan to be careful – after what happened last time with Cavan here,' Arthur explained. 'He agreed and said that there were other ways to make people talk.'

'I don't think she'll put up much of a fight,' Gawain interjected.

'That's what you thought of me,' Cavan said.

'Yea,' Arthur agreed. 'And look how that turned out.'

* * *

Galahad watched as Tristan threw a bucket of water over the blonde-haired girl who lay in the middle of the floor. She woke with a start and looked around wildly. Galahad couldn't help but remember with a flash the last time he had been in this room, watching Avilon – now Cavan - resist Tristan's torture.

'Where am I?' the girl stammered, her eyes full of fear as she stared at the imposing Hyrci scout leaning over her.

'You're in the custody of Arthur Castus,' Tristan answered her, his tone implying that it would be the last question he responded to. 'Now, we'll start with the easy questions.'

'Easy questions?'

'What is your name?' Tristan demanded of her.

'Daenerys,' she said, her voice faltering.

'Why are you here?'

'I can't tell you – I don't know – I just had to watch and then tell Aulus if she was here or not. I don't know why – they don't tell slaves anything – I promise!'

'Well that was easy enough. Answer all our questions like that and there'll be no need for violence,' Tristan reassured her. 'Now. Who do you work for?'

* * *

Dagonet had shown Irri around the fort and town, and now they were headed for Vanora's. She was wearing a long-sleeved shift dress and thin linen gloves to cover her burns – Dagonet had picked them up from Levin on their way past. As they walked through the town, growing closer to Vanora's tavern, Irri began to grow uncomfortable. Dagonet had explained to her who the knights were and how to recognise them – describing Tristan's tattoos and silence, Gawain's matted blond hair, Bors' many children, Lancelot's flirting and charming smiles – but she was still anxious about meeting them in person.

'You should know that we have another girl staying with us,' Dagonet said as they strolled down the steps into the empty market place.

'Who is she?'

'Her name is Cavan. She was ill, and I helped her,' he informed her, editing out the part where Cavan was an assassin and had come to kill Arthur. 'She's staying in the knight's quarters – her room is opposite yours.'

'Will she be at Vanora's?' Irri asked. She seemed very happy with the idea that she was not the only broken girl that the knights were burdened with.

'I don't know – but I doubt it. She was ill again last night, and I don't know how she is today.'

'Where is she from?'

'Why don't you ask her yourself,' Dagonet rumbled, pointing towards a girl sat at a table in the courtyard ahead of them, who had long black hair in a braid and sea-green eyes. She was sat next to a stocky man with matted blond hair – _That must be Gawain, _Irri thought. 'She has her own burns, you know,' Dagonet continued as they grew closer to the square. 'Cavan was caught in a fire when she was a child – it destroyed her entire village and killed her parents.'

'I am lucky, then, for I had no family, even before the fire.'

'No husband?' he inquired shrewdly, rubbing the corner of his mouth.

'None at all!' Irri replied laughingly as they entered the courtyard. Cavan heard the laughter and her head flicked up.

'Dagonet!' she cried. 'My saviour! Come, take me away from these boors!' The men around her laughed – _Gawain, Arthur and Lancelot, _Irri thought, pleased she could name them all. There was a woman sat on Lancelot's lap, who Irri didn't know. The girl saw her staring and stretched out her hand.

Irri took the hand gently.

'Sansa,' the girl introduced herself.

'Irri.'

'So, Dag, care to explain who she is?' Cavan asked, smiling at Irri and making room on the bench where she was sitting. 'Move over, Gawain!' She punched the knight on the shoulder and he hastily moved, rubbing his arm.

'My name is Irri. I come from Yoren. My home was burnt down and I was brought here two days ago. But I like it here – everyone is very kind.' Her voice was soft and lively, like bells.

'My name is Cavan and this is –'

'Lancelot, Gawain and Arthur,' Irri interrupted.

'Well done,' Dagonet said. 'You learn fast.'

'So tell me where you are from,' she insisted of Cavan. The younger girl looked slightly alarmed but smiled all the same and retold portions of her history to the talkative blonde. She left out Evin, and her slavery, merely mentioning that she lived in Ireland for a long time before coming here.

Suddenly, a thought struck Cavan, and she turned to Irri.

'If you wait here just a moment, I can get you something to reduce the signs of scarring from your burns,' she announced. 'I wish I had found it earlier, for I think it only works in the first few months. But it continues to give relief.'

She left the table and vanished inside Vanora's taproom, returning a few moments later with a small iron box with Irish horses inscribed round the sides.

'Rub it on whenever the burns itch or feel hot. It will help.'

'Thank you,' Irri mumbled, accepting the gift with wide eyes. 'You have no need of it yourself?'

'I have found someone who thinks I am beautiful just the way that I am,' Cavan replied, pointing at Gawain. He saw her gesture and turned to her, inviting her to sit beside him.

'We're having a contest to see whose wine is better – Hani's or Viviane's,' he explained, taking her hand in his.

'No! I couldn't possibly drink more – I shall fall over!' Cavan laughed.

Dagonet met Irri's eyes over the table and they smiled at each other. He was glad to see she was settling in with Cavan well. The two would become very close friends, he predicted.

Suddenly a loud shout came from the stables.

'Arthur!' It was Tristan's accented voice. Everyone on the table turned to face Arthur, who shrugged, confused.

'Arthur!' came the voice again.

'I'd best go see what our scout wants before he explodes from making so much noise,' their commander said. The rest of the men round the table went back to their drinking.

'I must admit,' Lancelot exclaimed loudly, 'that Hani's wine is the best I have _ever _tasted! And I will tell you now – I am not drunk!' The slur in his voice told the occupants of the table otherwise.

'Poor Lancelot,' Cavan teased. 'Can't hold his drink!'

'I wonder what's got the scout all agitated,' Gawain speculated.

'I'll go ask,' she replied, climbing from her seat and squeezing past Irri. Crossing the street, she pulled her cloak around her slender frame, casting her gaze skywards to see if the sun had managed to peek through the clouds. She was disappointed.

Cavan could hear Arthur and Tristan talking but she couldn't make out the words. As she drew nearer the stable door, however, the words suddenly became clearer.

'Arthur, never mind that,' Tristan said forcefully. 'What do I tell my sister?'

Cavan stifled a gasp. Tristan had told Arthur? He had no right to do that! But then Arthur spoke again and what he said chilled her to the bone.

'Lie to her,' he ordered.

* * *

It was storming outside. Rain thudded on the ground and the roof, sounding like thousands of hands clapping at once. Every few minutes, lightning would flash, lighting up the world with bright white light, followed by the echoing boom of thunder.

The air was heavy, and inside the buildings it was warm and sticky. Cavan was sleeping on top of her blankets to avoid the heat. She flinched in her sleep, her toes and fingers curling, her brow furrowing. Words escaped her mouth, unintelligible sentences.

'No… Evin, he is mine, I don't want… understand,' she moaned, rolling over. Suddenly she sat straight up and screamed, her eyes wide and staring. Gasping for breath, she tried to remember what she had dreamt of.

_Gawain, standing under a marriage cloth, gazing with love and adoration at a woman with long brown hair. She leant forwards and kissed him. Suddenly, Evin appeared behind them__. Cavan called out a warning but neither of them listened. Evin pulled back his arm and thrust a sword through__ Gawain's back. The blond had fallen, still staring at the girl before him. Evin turned to Cavan and held out his arm, whispering her name._

Lightning flashed abruptly, revealing shadows in the corners of her room, showing shapes where there couldn't possibly be any. Cavan dived under the blankets, shivering with fear. She could have sworn that she had seen a man stood over her bed. Trying to calm her thunderous heart, Cavan took three deep breaths and then sat up again. _Don't be a fool, _she told herself sternly. _You're dreaming. Evin is dead, you killed him yourself. _But then the thunder roared outside the window and in the midst of the echoing noise Cavan heard a silken voice murmuring her name. She couldn't stand it anymore. Jumping from the bed, she ran across the room and out the door, into the corridor that was – thankfully – brightly lit with torches. The thought crossed her mind that she could sleep out here, but it would mean going back inside her room to get blankets.

'Dammit,' she whispered. Gazing at the doors that led to each knight's room, Cavan tried to remember which room belonged to Dagonet. He was possibly the only knight who wouldn't judge her if she crept into their room half-naked in the middle of the night. Tristan was out of the question – the lying bastard! – and Cavan was suddenly afraid that she couldn't trust Arthur after what she had overheard him saying to her brother. 'God's truth!' she cursed. 'Which is his room?'

Making up her mind, she crossed the corridor and silently pushed the door open. As she did, another clap of thunder resounded through the building, making her jump. In the darkness, she could just make out a body laying in the bed against the opposite wall. Cavan carefully avoided the clothes that littered the ground and slipped into the chair situated beside the window. Curling up in the seat, she rested her head against the arm and closed her eyes.

'Cavan, is that you?' a female voice asked.

'Irri?'

'Yes, it's me.'

'Why are you not asleep?' Cavan questioned, sitting up in the chair.

'I am terrified of thunderstorms,' Irri admitted. 'They give me the feeling that anyone could be outside, waiting to come through that door. Why are you here?'

'I had a nightmare. It's nothing,' she replied. Standing up, she said, 'I'll go back to my room.'

'No, don't be a fool. Come here,' Irri insisted. 'We can keep each other company.'

Grinning, Cavan slid under the covers with Irri. The elder girl shuffled over, allowing Cavan to find a comfortable space. They curled up beside each other, their feet touching.

'Your toes are cold,' Irri whispered, giggling. Cavan smiled. After a few moments of silence the blonde spoke again. 'Was your nightmare about the fire?'

'No,' she reassured her. She made a sudden decision to tell Irri everything. After all, Cavan knew everything about her. 'After my village was burnt down, I was sold as a slave in Rome, and taken to Ireland. There was a man there called Evin, and he did terrible things to me.'

'I am so sorry, Cavan. Do you dream of him often?'

Cavan closed her eyes.

'Every night.' Silence descended on the pair. Irri could hear Cavan trying to control her breathing – she took her hand underneath the blankets and squeezed it gently. 'But he is dead now,' Cavan continued, her voice quiet.

'Then the Goddess Pandora has given you a gift. You can forget about this man and start a new life,' Irri whispered.

'I hope so. With all that is left of my soul.'

**So happy that I'm still writing! Hopefully I'll be able to finish the story before my inspiration runs out! **

**So, does Cavan forgive Tristan this time? Tell me what you think! And should she reveal to the rest of the knights that he is her brother? I NEED HELP GUYS! Thanks!**

**Thank you so much for reading this, it really does mean so much to me. **


	21. What Are You Hiding?

**Chapter Twenty-One: What Are You Hiding?**

'Knights,' Arthur began, looking at the men seated around the table. 'And ladies,' he added, smiling at Cavan and Irri who were sat together beside Galahad. 'We have been called south to Coccium to deal with an uprising of natives.'

'Hai! Let the Romans deal with their own problems,' Bors grumbled. 'We are here to defend the wall, not be personal guards to some pampered Roman _daiyuos._'

The other knights laughed. Cavan and Irri looked at each other, completely ignorant to the meaning of the swearword.

'Bors,' reprimanded Arthur. 'We all are in service to Rome. We have to do their bidding.'

'Arthur, I don't understand why we are here,' Irri said, a little worried. 'We aren't coming, are we?'

'Of course not. I wouldn't risk your safety like that. This mission is very poorly timed, but we will not leave until tomorrow. This will give us time to find a way of protecting you here in the fort.'

'Why do we need protecting?' Cavan asked heatedly, glaring at Arthur. 'In case you'd forgotten, I can actually use a sword.'

'The Roman soldiers have been asking questions about where you come from and who you are. I have spread the story that you and I are distant relatives,' Arthur replied. 'But if anyone was to see your slave's brand, then they could be driven to do something foolish. The Roman soldiers are a patriotic and very loyal bunch, and they would recognise a Roman brand anywhere.'

'I'm not afraid of them,' she claimed.

'We care for your safety too, Cavan,' Tristan interjected quickly.

'Oh really?' she spat angrily. 'You _care, _do you?'

'Please, Cavan,' Arthur placated her. 'We have all agreed that it would be better for you both to have trained guards protecting you. We're not taking any chances with your safety. I'm sure that you don't object, Irri?' At a shake of the head from the blonde girl, he continued. 'Tristan, you can take them to the training squares. The guards will be waiting for you there.'

The two girls and Tristan stood up and he ushered them from the room. As they walked down the corridor, Cavan heard Arthur start to speak again.

'There is another reason I have brought you here,' he started. But the rest of his words faded away as the small group continued down the corridor.

Outside, the storm had passed, but rain still drizzled from the dark clouds above them. It was only enough to cause a wet haze in the air, that stuck to the skin and face like spiders' webs. They walked through the gates and out into the expanse of green behind the knights' quarters, Irri and Cavan huddling together to avoid the cold.

At the training squares, there were two men bare-fist fighting. They had a strange style to the way they moved – it was not strength they relied on, but using their opponent's own actions against them. They both had very tanned skin and short black hair, cut crudely to rest just above the ears. Neither of them were wearing more than loose breeches tied around the waist and rolled up to the knees. Their chests were covered with a light film of rain and sweat.

As Cavan watched, the two men – both very similar-looking – circled each other slowly. Suddenly, the taller of the two lunged forwards and landed a kick on the other's tensed stomach, only to be rewarded by his opponent grabbing the leg and twisting it, simultaneously punching his hip, causing the taller man to be spun sideways from the force of both the punch and the twist. The man landed on the floor, coughing. The shorter man gave him a hand and pulled him upright. They clapped each other on the back, grinning.

'Jadat jinne,' Tristan shouted, in a language neither of the girls recognised. The men's heads flicked up and they bowed. Jumping over the ropes of the square, they strode towards the knight, their eyes reverent.

'Chiori ko lajat. Vichomerat ma khas,' the Sarmatian continued, gesturing at Irri and Cavan.

'Where are they from?' Irri asked, unable to keep her eyes of the sculpted, chiselled chests of the men before her.

'Kisha Tuniqa thirat, ha heske-titha,' the shorter man said.

'They are from Tuniqa, somewhere in the south-east,' Tristan interpreted. 'They know basic Latin – it will be easy to communicate.'

'What is your name?' Cavan asked the shorter man.

'Osolet,' he replied, pointing to himself. Then he pointed to the other man. 'Halasir. My brother.' Halasir bowed to them and fixed his gaze on Cavan, bowing again – just to her.

'I will protect you until I die,' he said, looking Cavan straight in the eye. 'I vow to you.'

* * *

'You told Arthur, didn't you?' Cavan asked Tristan as they stood back-to-back in the stables, brushing their horses. Halasir was stood just inside the door, watching over the street outside, his stance tense.

'He gave me a direct order. I couldn't lie to him,' Tristan replied, his voice as expressionless as his face.

'Of course not,' she mumbled with distaste. 'Of course you wouldn't lie to _him._'

'What?' he said quickly, turning around.

'What happened with the spy you caught?' She changed the subject skilfully.

'Nothing of interest. We let her go.'

'What are you hiding from me, Tristan?' Cavan demanded, throwing down her brush.

'I would not hide anything from you, sister.'

'Tristan, I am not a fool! I know when I am being lied to!' she shouted at him. Her voice turned miserable. 'What is happening?'

Tristan reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingers.

'Nothing, sister, I promise,' he whispered.

Suddenly he retracted his hand as though burned. Cavan turned round and saw what had made Tristan remove his hand. Gawain sauntered into the stables, a cup of wine in his hand. He narrowed his eyes at the black-haired guard by the door and made his way to Arican's stall. Noticing Cavan and Tristan, he muttered a word of greeting and stroked Arican's mane.

Cavan led Falada back into his stall and tied the gate shut.

'Gawain, will you join me at Vanora's? I'll buy you breakfast,' she coaxed, taking his arm and pulling him towards the door. He shook her hands off and turned back to his horse.

'No,' he muttered. 'I have other things to do.'

Cavan stared at his back with a mixture of horror and disappointment in her eyes. Then her jaw tightened and she turned her back on him and strode from the stable, followed by Halasir.

'God damn you, Tristan! I want to put her on my horse and take far from here. That is surely the only way!' Gawain shouted at Tristan as soon as Cavan had left.

'There is nothing you or I can do. He will not stop here,' Tristan replied quietly.

'So you will let them come and not even _try?_'

'We have a week, at least. Arthur will think of something,' the scout said. But his voice was trembling.

'If he doesn't, I'm blaming you,' Gawain threatened. 'I can't even look at her without feeling this guilt exploding inside of me. You need to fix this, Tristan.'

Tristan nodded brusquely and turned his back on Gawain. He would go and see Arthur and try to convince him to send her away somewhere. He knew already that it was a failed attempt at saving her. Arthur had no power to stop it – _he has_ _just as little power as I do_, he thought dejectedly.

* * *

The days that the knights were away passed slowly for Cavan. She spent them in the company of Irri, Hani, and Vanora – and of course Halasir and his brother – trying to distract herself from the constant worrying about what it was the knights were hiding from her. She had the feeling that all of the knights knew – Gawain's reaction to her in the stables had been enough to invoke that fear in her. And the way that Lancelot had looked at her the day they left – his eyes apologetic, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them.

The weather was no less miserable than it had been – the storm had returned, causing Irri and Cavan to share a bed again, as they both were getting less and less sleep as the days wore on. However, the comfort of a warm body beside her still could not dispel Cavan's bad dreams. She was kept up every night with recurring nightmares. In these nightmares, Cavan was alone in the middle of a room, the bodies of the Sarmatian knights littered around her. Suddenly, they would climb to their feet and whisper that they blamed her for everything. Not even Irri's soothing lullabies could help her drift off to sleep again after she woke in the middle of the night, shivering and covered in a cold sweat.

The knights had been gone for three days when Cavan could bear it no longer. The pent-up rage she felt for Arthur, her brother and _all _the knights was on the brink of overflowing, and mixed with the fatigue in her bones – she was going mad. She found she had boundless energies that could not be dispelled. She had tried racing Falada through the fields, going for long runs around the fort – she had even tried to offer her services to both Fabius, the head cook in the kitchens, and Vanora. Both had turned her down, despite her saying that she desired no money, only something to keep her mind off her damned brother and his gang of _tu__íllí__. _

In the end, it was Halasir who saved Cavan from the brink of madness. He saw her lash out at the wall, trying to release some of her anger, and took her arm, folding her fingers into a fist and saying, 'Clench like this, and it will hurt less.' Their eyes met and she had grinned at him. Her lessons had begun immediately.

They spent almost every minute together in the training squares, slowly progressing from simple punches and blocks – executed with weights in the hands to improve speed – to more advanced moves like the _maegis lojat_, a strike involving the forearm and the opponent's head, and a kick in which the defendant crouches down and kicks the opponent's legs from under him.

Cavan was no-where near as competent as Halasir, but after six days of practising with him, they could fight for a good five minutes before he overpowered her and brought her down.

Before each training match, Halasir would insist on a two-mile run 'for preparation,' and by the end of a session, both Cavan and her guard were breathless. They took breaks for lunch, but apart from that, they were training solidly for hours at a time. Cavan was glad for this – after three days, she had almost forgotten what Tristan even looked like, and her nightmares of the knights had lessened, but only to be replaced by her old dreams of Evin's tortures.

* * *

It was the seventh day of the knights' absence, and the weather was beginning to turn again. All the heat had disappeared, replaced instead by a shiver-inducing wind. The sun shone brightly, but gifted no warmth to the people below. The days grew shorter and shorter, darkness encompassing the world in the early evening.

The townsfolk – all holding true to their pagan forefathers – were in preparation for the feast of Samhain, the festival that marked the end of the cooling season, building two large bonfires in the centre of the field that ran along Hadrian's Wall to the east of the fort. Strips of red cloth were hung from windows and a large red flag was erected in the centre of the market place. Cavan took to tying up her hair with red cloth – even though, as a Christian, she did not agree with the festival.

Watching the red flag in the market place flapping in the wind from her seat outside Vanora's, Cavan couldn't help her mind straying to the day she and Gawain had visited Gareth's grave. She realised that she missed Gawain terribly. She missed Dagonet too – and, she had to admit it – Lancelot's dry laughter, his shameless flirting. Cavan realised with a jolt that she thought of the knights as her family. They were all protective older brothers – _but then, _she thought bitterly, _I already have one of those._

Halasir brought her from her reverie by setting a clay bowl down before her filled with Vanora's meat stew and handing her a chunk of bread. She looked around the courtyard. Suddenly there were Romans everywhere – taking advantage of their mess break to drink wine and flirt with Vanora's tap girls.

'_Hoyali_,' she thanked Halasir in his own tongue.

'See? You learn fast of my language,' he grinned back at her.

Irri, Osolet and Sansa joined them, each with their own bowl of stew. Sansa pushed her pale orange hair out of her eyes and tied it in a messy knot at the back of her head, sighing loudly.

'I'm so bored without the knights,' she moaned. 'There's nothing fun around this place when they're gone. And Vanora gets all irritable because she's scared her lover won't come back to her. I just wish they would come back now!'

'Vanora has a right to worry over Bors,' Cavan replied, frowning. 'You shouldn't judge her for missing him.'

'They _are_ in love,' Irri pointed out. 'Wouldn't you be worried?'

Sansa licked her spoon, contemplating the question.

'I would definitely desire for him to come home,' she admitted.

'In our country,' Halasir said quietly, 'Women fight alongside men.'

'Whatever do they do that for?' Sansa cried.

'It is woman's right as well as man's to protect homes and lands against people who wish to steal them.'

Sansa frowned disdainfully; she clearly thought that women who fought had no trace of decency or respectability. Cavan saw the look and smirked. _And she thinks she has so much modesty, in a different man's bed every night._

Suddenly the ginger girl squealed happily and jumped up and down in her seat, pointing wordlessly at the gates to the fort.

'They're back!' Irri laughed.

The sound of horses cantering down the dirt streets came to Cavan's ears. She turned in her seat and watched as the knights rode past her and into the stables. Cavan watched as Jols shut the stable doors behind the knights and thanked God that her quick head-count had revealed that everyone was alive and safely home.

Blinking tears of relief from her eyes, she turned back to the others. Irri was smiling ecstatically, her lips stretched wide.

'I'm going to go see them,' Cavan informed the group. She picked up her bowl and took it to the tap room. Vanora was stood behind the counter, filling a pitcher with wine.

'They're back,' she told Vanora. The woman rubbed her eyes with her fingers, sighing with relief. 'In the stables,' Cavan continued. 'Coming?'

'I'll just finish up here,' Vanora replied, smiling at her. 'Go see your Gawain.'

'He's not _my _Gawain,' Cavan muttered. Vanora sent her a knowing smile and pointed towards the stables.

Cavan turned around and went back through the courtyard. Halasir followed her as she crossed the street and took the side alley next to the stable. The door there was unlocked – Cavan pushed it open and stepped through.

Inside, the knights were busying themselves with their horses, unloading the weapons and wine-skins, blankets and bed-rolls, and piling them outside the stalls. Cavan saw Gawain with Arican and ran to him. He turned around, saw her, and grinned from ear to ear. He picked her up and hugged her close. She wrapped her arms round his neck and held on to him as if her life depended on it.

'I missed you so much,' he murmured in her ear. In response, she loosened her arms and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Gawain kissed her back tenderly, taking her face in his hands. His soft lips lingered on hers, smooth and gentle. They broke apart and embraced again, Cavan burying her face in his leather jerkin.

'I'd keep those kinds of greetings to the bed chamber, if I were you,' Lancelot warned, winking at Cavan. 'You never know who is watching.' He pointed to Tristan, who was glaring at the pair.

'Tristan will get over himself,' Cavan assured him, sending an angry look towards her brother. She let go of Gawain's hand and took a seat on the beam that the saddles were normally draped over. Halasir sat beside her. She smiled at him and he raised an eyebrow.

'Stop it!' she laughed at him. 'I shall kiss who I want!'

Suddenly Vanora rushed in through the side door and jumped on Bors, her red hair flying wildly behind her. The large knight grinned and kissed her passionately.

Then Irri came through the door, Osolet just behind her. She looked around tentatively before heading straight for Dagonet, who gently touched her face and held her. The moment between them was so personal and tender that Cavan felt intrusive just watching it.

'Anyone glad to be home?' asked Galahad loudly, gazing round at his brothers. They all sounded their approval.

Galahad and Lancelot made their exit through the door, heading towards the tavern. Bors and Vanora disappeared too. _There are no doubts as to where _they _are going_, Cavan thought, smiling to herself.

Unexpectedly, a boy slipped in through the stable doors, wearing a red toga. Cavan recognised him – she had seen him around the fort a few times. He had messy blond hair and was carrying a wooden, tubular container. It was about a foot long and an inch in diameter, clearly meant to hold some sort of scroll or message.

The boy bowed in front of Arthur and gave him the wooden canister. Arthur flicked the cap off and pulled out the scroll inside. He unrolled it, his eyes raking the page. As he read further down, the Roman general frowned.

'Dammit,' he hissed quietly as he finished it.

'Something wrong, Arthur?' Cavan enquired, standing up and looking worriedly at him.

'Not at all,' he lied smoothly. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. 'Tristan, can I talk to you for a moment?'

The scout met his commander's glance and nodded curtly. The pair of them left the stables, walking in the direction of the meeting hall.

'Your idea worked. There have been delays caused by an invitation by Titus Salvius in Luguvallium,' Arthur told him. 'But only for a short time. Three days, at most.'

'And there is nothing you can do?'

'I'm sorry, Tristan. The law is the law and I cannot dispute it. At this point, there is nothing _anyone _can do.'

'Thank you, Arthur. I know you have done all you can. I appreciate it.' They stopped walking and Arthur put his hand on Tristan's shoulder.

'I would do it for anyone, you know that.' He looked down at the floor. 'This is not something she deserves. I wonder if we should tell her, though. It may give her time to prepare.'

'No. I won't do that to her,' the scout replied tersely, his voice void of emotion.

'Just make sure you're doing it for the right reasons, Tristan,' Arthur advised, his voice stern. 'I wouldn't want this to be worse on her because you were a coward.' He turned and walked away, towards his room and his bed, rubbing his eyes. He was suddenly very tired.

Tristan's eyes burned with concealed anger. Anger at himself; he knew that his commander was right. He _was_ a spineless coward. But recognising it didn't mean he could overcome it. And Tristan knew that if he tried to conquer his cowardice, he would fail.

**So many updates in these past few days. You had better be enjoying them! Thanks for reading, everyone! By the way, if any of you are interested, I have photos of what I think my OCs look like. If you ask I'll send you the links or something.**

**Coccium and Luguvallium are both Roman cities. Coccium is Ribchester (just north of Manchester) and Luguvallium is Carlisle.**

**The language that Halasir and his brother speak is sort of Dothraki. Basically, it's a made-up language. _Jadat jinne _is 'come here.' Then the rest of what Tristan says is 'These are the girls you will be guarding. Be respectful.' Sorry if it was hard to understand. But it doesn't really matter what they says - doesn't affect the storyline.**

**The swearword Bors uses at the beginning - _daiyuos - _comes from the Persian word for 'one whose wife is loose.' He's just insulting the Romans by saying that their wives are whores.**

**Cavan says 'damned brother and his gang of _tu__íllí__.' _Tuilli is the Irish word for bastards. **


	22. You Have A Lot To Teach

**Chapter Twenty-Two: You Have A Lot To Teach**

Cavan had decided to ignore her fears about what the knights where hiding from her. Whatever it was, they would not tell her and it was no use worrying herself over it. After all, how would she find out apart from them? So she put it from her mind and focused instead on enjoying the run-up to the festival of Samhain.

Her Christianity was not wavering - she was still loyal to God – but it was a festival full of happiness and the joy of life, and Cavan had more reason than most to be thankful. She had suffered terribly, but after all that, she had beaten her fears and was alive – she had dropped so low that she had to climb high, and it was the fact that she had managed it that she was thankful for.

Cavan was sat on her bed, wearing only the necklace Tristan had given her, a pile of clothes beside her and a tired look on her face. The burns on her shoulders and chest were as red as ever, and the brand in her arm, cut through with a deep line, was dark and ridged. Her hair was unplaited and loose, tumbling in a knotted black mess down her back.

The clothes beside her were her new wardrobe. She had visited Levin the day before, and asked for two _chitons _and two _peploi _of the softest cloth she had, and a Roman cloak. Cavan missed the type of clothes she had worn when she lived with Evin - not everything about him was pain and anger. The quiet words he mumbled in his sleep, his silken voice, the way he kissed her when she was willing.

She may have been a slave, but she didn't live like one. The food she ate was rich and good, the bed she slept in was warm and comfortable, the dresses she wore expensive and elegant. But she would have given all that away if she could have spent just one night out of Evin's painful grip.

Gathering her strength, Cavan stood up and tried to shake the memories of Ireland out of her head. She tied her breast band over her chest and slipped into one of the dresses from the pile on the bed. It was green. Although not as soft as the clothes Evin had gifted her, it was still less painful on her skin than her old shirts and breeches. The _caligae _sandals she had found in Dagonet's chest had become the only shoes she wore, and her feet were growing used to the supple leather in place of her heavy boots.

Running her fingers through her hair, Cavan pushed it from her face and tied the heavy locks in a knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with her cloak pin. She picked up an iron box from the table beside her bed and opened it, pulling from within a ring. It was a thick band of gold, shaped like a snake, with the head swallowing the tail in an endless circle. Cavan slipped it onto her hand slowly, gazing at it. She remembered Evin wearing it, reaching out with his hand to slap her around the face. It only fitted his little finger.

Bastard.

Cavan snapped the box shut and slammed it down on the table. Then she filled a cup with wine and downed it in one. It slid easily down her throat, the fruity taste pervading every corner of her mouth. She refilled the clay beaker and took another sip, then turned and left the room.

Halasir and Osolet were both at the armoury, having leather cuirasses made. Cavan remembered this only when she turned round, looking for Halasir, only to find him absent.

She found Gawain, along with Lancelot, Bors and Galahad, in the training squares: it was late morning and the knights had long since woken. They were fighting in shirts and breeches, their feet bare on the cold ground. However, every man had large sweat patches on their backs and beneath their arms - it was clearly hot work.

Gawain and Bors were fist-fighting, and Galahad and Lancelot both wielded Roman short-swords, the clashing sound they made harsh to the ear. Cavan watched them for a few minutes, admiring the fluidity of Lancelot's movements and the pure strength that Bors' muscles contained.

Gawain noticed her watching and ceased his fight with Bors. The others were happy to stop: they had been training since daybreak and the sweat was running down their skin like water. All would be glad to wash and eat.

'Sleep well?' Lancelot inquired, grinning at Cavan.

'Not particularly,' she replied shortly.

Lancelot's face changed from flirtatious to concerned. Cavan turned her gaze to Gawain, looking a little upset. Bors saw the look and clapped his hand onto Galahad's shoulder.

'Come lads, let's leave these two and wash the sweat off our balls!' he cried, pushing both Galahad and Lancelot in the direction of the baths. Lancelot sent one last look over his shoulder, his eyebrows knitted together in worry, but then turned back to Bors and the prospect of getting clean.

'What is wrong?' Gawain asked, taking Cavan's face in his hands and embracing her in a warm hug.

'He is in my dreams. I am so afraid of nightmares that I no longer sleep,' Cavan replied, her face buried in his tunic.

The two were quiet for a long time, before Gawain released his hold on her and stared into her eyes.

'Samhain is this evening, the end of the harvest - the beginning of a new year and a new life. We can enjoy it together and you will forget about him. I promise,' he said, smiling. But his smile did not reach his eyes; they were full of hidden pain.

'Tell me, why is everyone in such anticipation for Samhain?' Cavan asked, remembering Galahad and Bors' excitement over the festival.

'It marks not only the end of the Woad season, but also the year mark of our service. There are now only two years left in our service to Rome.'

Gawain smiled infectiously - this time the gesture disappeared deep within his eyes - and Cavan smiled back.

'I am hungry,' she said, looking towards the kitchens. 'Shall I bring you some food?'

'I'll wait in your rooms,' Gawain grinned, winking. He moved to kiss Cavan but as he did, she twisted her head a little so that his lips landed on her cheek.

'I shall see you there,' Cavan whispered, and then her hand was vanished from his, and her back was all that he could see.

_She knows we are hiding something, _Gawain thought. _Why are we not doing more?_ He spat on the ground, angry at himself - and at Arthur and Tristan - then turned and headed off in the direction of the baths.

* * *

Cavan was just in time to join the boys in the kitchens for breakfast. One of the boys gave her a bowl full of warm porridge and a chunk of bread, then returned to his seat. As Cavan sat down opposite Fabius, the memories of her first meal in that very room came back to her.

'How goes your enterprise?' she asked, grinning at the tall cook.

'My boys are ever quiet, and ever watchful,' Fabius said, his spoon hanging from his fingers. 'In fact, I think one of them heard something about you just a few nights ago.'

Cavan's heart stopped: had they discovered that she was Gareth's murderer? Or that she had intended to assassinate Arthur? She hid her fear behind her bread, taking a large bite and swallowing.

'Something interesting, or just idle gossip?'

'Now I come to think about it,' Fabius mused, 'the boy didn't tell me what it was he had heard - just that it concerned 'the Irish girl.' I shall ask him about it.'

'No!' Cavan said quickly, lowering her eyes when Fabius frowned at her. 'I shall ask him, and then if it is just idle gossip, you won't have wasted your time.'

'Valerin!' the cook shouted.

A boy at the other end of the table with blond hair and dark eyes stood up, and nodded towards Fabius. The cook beckoned him closer.

'This is Cavan,' he explained to the boy. 'Your 'Irish girl.' She wants to know what you heard of her.'

'If you would,' Cavan said, smiling at him. 'We could talk a little later - when everyone has finished their food?'

Valerin bowed his head towards her deferentially, his eyes wary, and returned to his seat.

Fabius began to talk about a visitor who was coming to the fort, some Roman with connections at Castellum. Cavan had no interest in his words and her mind wandered - to the boy Valerin and what it was he had heard of her.

Slowly emptying her bowl and cup, Cavan mulled over what the boy could have heard. He seemed cautious, but not afraid - it couldn't be that Valerin had learnt of the circumstances over Gareth's death, or he would have told someone. Was it… no! Cavan's heart skipped another beat. Had Valerin overheard what the knights were hiding from her?

The other boys had finished their breakfast; they cleared their bowls and cups, and dumped them in the sink, filing out through the door. Cavan mimicked them, submerging her bowl in the warm water, thanking Fabius for his courtesy, and leaving through the door.

Valerin was waiting outside. His hands were dripping with water - obviously from the trough that the other boys were clustered around.

'Shall we?' Cavan asked, gesturing to the empty expanse of green between them and the training squares.

They walked in silence for a minute, but then Cavan could hold it in no longer. 'What have you heard?'

'It was Arthur and Lancelot,' Valerin said. 'They were in the meeting hall. Lancelot was angry about… he was angry about you.'

'Why?'

'He was talking about you to Arthur,' the boy continued. 'He was so angry - shouting and yelling about protection and cowardice. He said, 'Tristan is a coward for not telling her. He has no more right than she to know.' I didn't understand it then, and I don't now.'

Cavan contemplated Valerin's words carefully.

'And there was nothing else you heard?' she asked.

'There was one thing. Arthur said that the law is the law, whether in Rome, Hibernia or Britain.'

She frowned at the use of the word 'Hibernia' to describe Ireland, but thanked Valerin for his help and sent him back to the kitchens. He went gratefully.

_The law is the law, _Cavan thought to herself. _But the law of what?_

She ambled slowly towards the knights' quarters, a vague idea of talking with Irri floating through her mind. However, those thoughts were overcome by her reflections on what Valerin had said. No matter which way she tried to tackle the confusing conversation she had shared with him, she couldn't make head nor tail of his words.

Cavan was brought from her reverie by a couple of Bors' children - what looked like Four and Five - ran across her path, laughing and screaming. Following them, looking a little lost and forlorn, was Six, the silver-haired, blue-eyed girl, who was so often separated from the others' games.

'My little Luna,' Cavan said gently, picking the girl up. 'Whatever is the matter?'

Luna was Cavan's pet-name for Six. It seemed appropriate, using the Latin word for the moon for a girl who looked just like it.

'They run too fast,' Six replied.

'And you would find yourself as fast as they?' Cavan asked.

Six smiled, pondering Cavan's question.

'If I could be as fast as… Nikalay! I could catch everyone!'

'Who is Nikalay?' questioned Cavan, as she set off towards Vanora's, Six clinging on to her happily.

'Dag's horse. You didn't know?'

'It seems you have a lot to teach me.'

Six grinned up at Cavan, playing with a lock of hair that fell over her shoulder. She was very advanced for her age - she could talk fluently, better than her older brother, Five, and was clever. Cavan suspected she had inherited that cleverness from her mother, as Bors was no great intellectual.

Cavan walked slowly towards Vanora's, the child in her arms chattering quietly. Bors, Lancelot and Galahad were there, all of them with sopping wet hair - save for Bors, who had no hair for him to wet. The large knight smiled at Cavan as she came into the square, then stood and took his daughter from her arms.

'You haven't been pestering her, have you?' he asked.

'Not at all,' Cavan smiled.

Six waved goodbye to Cavan, then ran off into the taproom.

'Wine?' offered Lancelot, holding out a cup for her.

'No, thank you.' She had to remind herself to speak in a tone of gratitude, as her anger was suddenly bubbling up. 'I'm to meet Gawain.'

'Oh, well then, have fun!'

Lancelot winked at her cheekily, but she ignored him, turning around and heading for the knights' quarters.

'That girl does not deserve what's coming,' Bors said slowly, watching Cavan disappear from the square.

'But it's still coming,' interjected Galahad, his voice bitter.

'Yea, but she won't be the only one hurt by this. Gawain's face, when Arthur told us - this is going to take a long time to fade from his life,' Lancelot added.

'It will take a while to fade from _all _our lives.'

* * *

Gawain was sat on Cavan's bed, hair dripping onto his bare chest. He liked the feel of it; the way the water dribbled over his skin, following his scars down to his stomach and soaking the linen of his breeches. It was soft and cold, and made him feel sharp.

There was a faint knock on the door, and Cavan entered. Gawain felt his body stir even by just looking at her. The way her top lip overlapped the bottom one, the pale skin of her neck, her long, thin fingers, the flesh visible at her waist where her dress had been cut, the way the fabric gently brushed over her breasts; he could see the outline of them through the delicate material. How Gawain wanted to take her in his arms, and kiss her ivory skin and trace his fingers over every scar on her body and lay down beside her and -

'I brought you some food,' Cavan said. In her hands, she held a tray with salted bread, meat stew, two cups and a pitcher balanced carefully on it. 'Are you still hungry?'

Gawain stood up and took the tray from her hands, placing in on a circular table in the corner. There were two Roman-style chairs there too; they each took one.

'Is it not a bit early for meat stew?' Gawain asked. 'Fabius normally gives us porridge.'

'It is nearly noon,' Cavan replied.

She waited as her knight ate the stew and bread, refilling his cup with wine when he finished, and smiled, watching the motion of his throat as he swallowed. Gawain saw her looking and grinned back. Cavan let her eyes drop to his sculpted chest, gazing at the planes of muscle, interrupted by the dark scars that ran down his torso. She felt Gawain mimic her, felt his eyes rake over her body.

Desire pooled unbidden in Cavan's stomach. She felt a tremble of anticipation in her skin and stood up. Gawain's breath hitched as she slid onto his lap, her legs either side of his. Their eyes met and Cavan laid her hands onto his chest, blinking slowly. She leaned forwards, and brushed his nose with hers, feeling warm breath on her lips and strong hands at her back.

Their kiss was tender and fragile. Gawain held her lightly, his lips smooth and velvety on hers, gently prying his way into her mouth. Then the kiss softened and they broke apart. Gawain's hands moved from her shoulder blades to her thighs, and he kissed her again, stronger this time. Cavan's arms found their way round his neck; she dug her fingernails into his skin as he embraced her passionately, pushing her dress over her hips. She fisted her hands in his still-wet hair and pulled him closer, feeling his hands roaming the inside of her thighs.

'Gawain,' she murmured, her whole body tingling with delight.

Then suddenly the door to Cavan's room opened and, with a rushing sound, Irri ran in. She gasped at the couple, intwined on a chair. Cavan gaped at Irri and then looked back at Gawain, blushing terribly. She rose from his lap, making sure her dress covered herself appropriately, and then turned to Irri.

'I'm sorry!' Irri stuttered. 'I just need to talk to you…'

**I hope you enjoy that Cavan/Gawain moment, as I had a lot of fun writing it. Do tell me what you think!**

**Oh, and by the way, _Castellum _is the name of the fort town where the knights are stationed. Just in case you didn't know. **

**PS, the _big climax _is coming soon! Hold on to your pens, this is going to be bumpy...**


	23. A Toast To Sarmatia

**Chapter Twenty-Three: A Toast To Sarmatia**

'Sorry!' Irri stuttered. 'I just need to talk to you!'

'It's fine, Irri,' Cavan said. 'Come, let us go to your room.'

'No, I'll leave.' The words came from Gawain. 'I'll be at Vanora's.'

He left the room awkwardly, smiling at the apologetic look that Cavan gave him.

'Now,' said Cavan, turning to Irri. 'What's so important?'

'Dagonet!'

'Dag? What has he done?'

'Nothing! But I think I might…' Irri started, then she sat down heavily in a chair. 'I think that I have feelings for him.'

Cavan sat down opposite her, taking Irri's hands and smiling.

'Oh, Irri! I am delighted for you!' she began, but her voice trailed off as Irri frowned. 'Why are you not happy?'

'He will never return my feelings! He is too beautiful and kind, I do not deserve him! Why would he love one such as me? I am scarred, I am not -'

'Be quiet!' Cavan snapped. 'If you believe he will not love you then you are a fool.'

'But my burns…'

'Are just as much a part of you as the heart that beats inside your breast,' completed Cavan gently, placing her fingers over the afflicted skin of Irri's wrists.

However Irri looked unsure still, so Cavan pulled up the sleeve of her dress and invite Irri to look.

'This brand was given to me by the man who held dominance over every breath I took, for ten years. And here,' she said, showing Irri the burns over her chest bone and shoulder. 'Gawain said my scars were beautiful.'

'Dagonet… he said that he didn't even see the burns when he looked at me,' Irri admitted, biting her lip.

'Well then. Whatever is there to worry about?'

'I… I wouldn't know what to do. If it came to…'

'Laying with him?' Cavan asked, smiling tenderly at her. '_That_ I can help you with.'

'If you don't want to do this, then I understand!' Irri rushed to reassure her.

'Of course not! I honestly would love to help you. And if there is anything else, please, simply ask.'

Irri embraced Cavan and kissed her cheek impulsively, thanking her over and over again.

'Come to my room tonight, after the festival,' Cavan continued. 'I will have to get a few things.'

'Cavan, do you think it possible that he… that Dagonet feels for me?' Irri asked, after a moment's pause.

'If he doesn't, he is a fool.'

* * *

It was just before midnight, and the Samhain bonfires were still burning brightly, casting a flickering orange glow over the faces of the townspeople who stood around them. Stars shone in the depths of the sky above, glimmering gently. The smell of roasting pork and apples drifted through the air, accompanied by the sound of low chatter and muted music.

Cavan was returning to the fires after being with Irri. She had brushed Irri's hair, and rubbed lavender on her skin, and shown her what to do with Dagonet. Then, she had taken Irri to Dag's room and pushed her softly through the door, repeating an earlier statement in a whisper: 'Take control.'

It was awfully cold in the open air. The people who were still outside were all clustered around the bonfires, taking advantage of the warmth given out from the flames. And still, many people wore cloaks in an attempt to stay off the chill wind.

All of the knights - save for Dagonet - and Hani, Sansa and Vanora were stood beside a large table covered in empty pitchers and cups, about ten metres from the bonfires. Halasir and Osolet were both stood by the fire. Cavan raised a hand to Halasir and he returned the gesture, smiling.

Lancelot spotted Cavan and called out to her.

'Hai! Come hear the news!'

Cavan joined them, taking Gawain's hand and leaning into his chest.

'Vanora is with child!' Lancelot continued.

'Again,' added Galahad, grinning.

'How will I survive?' Bors moaned, running his fingers over what was left of his hair. 'Last time Vanora was carrying, she evicted me from our bed… I'll have to come and stay in that freezing building with you miserable scuts and your mewling harpies!'

Vanora hit him lightly on the arm, and he turned to her, looking guilty, as though he had forgotten she was there.

'You might think it was he with the child in his belly. He is complaining as much as Vanora does!' Gawain said. Everyone laughed, save for Tristan, whose lips barely twitched.

'How many will this make?' Cavan asked.

'It'll be the eighth,' Hani replied quietly.

'There are only two years left for us now,' Gawain said suddenly.

Lancelot held up his cup.

'We shall drink to home!' he announced.

The rest of the knights raised their goblets, holding them there for a few seconds, and then downed their wine in a toast, echoing Lancelot's words.

The conversation the group had been having before Cavan had arrived restarted again - plans for the winter now that Woad season was over. Lancelot's input - unsurprisingly, due to the amount of wine he had consumed - was three words: women and wine. Hani laughed and said something about it being any woman but her.

Tristan's mind was, as per usual, elsewhere. He was, in fact, thinking about Daenerys. He knew he had treated her wrongly - she was a slave, only doing what she had been commanded to. Ever since he had beaten Cavan nearly to the point of death, he had viewed females differently. Of course, he had interrogated quite a few Woad women - and had been forced to use violence on them - but now, something was different.

The white-haired slave could never have fought back. She didn't possess the physical - or mental - strength to do so. _Maybe that is what makes it different,_ Tristan thought. But Cavan - she could have fought back. And, while he was hitting her, it had felt… right, almost. It was only now - now he knew they were brother and sister - that he had a problem with it.

'You are scaring me.'

The words brought Tristan from his musing. He looked around to see who it was who had spoken and his eyes alighted on Cavan. She looked beautiful; her raven hair was hanging free save for two thick locks - one from either side of her face - that had been pulled behind her head and tied there. Her eyes were bright, and she wore a loose dress and a cloak in a deep red colour that set of her skin prettily.

'You are scaring me,' she repeated.

'Why?' Tristan asked quietly, avoiding her fierce gaze.

'First I find that you have told Arthur of our relationship without consulting me, then he orders you to lie to me - which you have done - and then when you returned from Coccium, I realise that you are hiding even more from me, and that all of you know! Tristan, you have to tell me what is happening!' she said angrily.

'I can't.'

'I don't care how much you respect Arthur, how much you owe him -'

'I can't!' Tristan cut over her. He grasped her arms and looked straight into her eyes. '_I can't.'_

'No, Tristan. This time, I will not let this go! You have to tell me! You _have_ to tell me!'

'I will not!' shouted Tristan.

Suddenly Lancelot was beside him, and Gawain and Galahad too. Sansa was holding onto Galahad's arm, gazing at the pair of them like they were lunatics.

'What is _between _you two?' Lancelot demanded.

Tristan spat on the ground and glared at the knights surrounding them.

'You may as well tell them. They all think we are lovers anyway!' he hissed. Then he turned his back on Cavan and pushed between Hani and Arthur, and disappeared into the dark.

'Cavan?' Gawain mumbled.

Cavan turned to him, tears in her eyes. As he gazed at her, they overflowed and trickled down her cheeks.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I can't. Arthur, tell them.'

And she too pushed past Hani, and fled the field, sobbing.

'Arthur?' Bors urged him quietly.

'Tristan…' started Arthur. 'Tristan is Cavan's brother. The one she thought had died here.'

* * *

It was very early morning – just after midnight. Dagonet was lying awake in his bed, furs drawn up to his waist, one arm behind his head and a contented smile on his face. It was cold outside, but in his room, the fire was lit, causing Dagonet no need for clothes under the sheets. A warm orange glow emanated from the flames, and the soft smell of wood smoke permeated every inch of the room.

Dagonet was thinking of Irri. Recently, he had been able to think of nothing else. Since the day they had returned from their mission in Coccium, and she had walked straight to him, her eyes wide and full to the brim with relief… something had changed between them, and inside his own body.

Dagonet was not like Lancelot and Galahad, a different girl in his bed every night. He had only taken two girls to his bed in the time he had been at the fort – but those same girls had returned again and again at his request. Erina the cloth-merchant's shapely daughter, who Dagonet had bedded the first night her and her father had come to the fort – and then every time they returned, at least thrice a year, until their visits had ceased. Then, two years later, Aislinn, as fiery and red-headed as her sister, Vanora, had arrived unexpectedly at the fort. She had caused quite a stir with Lancelot when she had left his bed for Dagonet's. It had been a harsh blow to the flirtatious knight's pride, but he had been soothed by the countless warm bodies waiting for him back in Vanora's taproom.

But Aislinn had left, less than three years ago – simply collected her belongings and vanished. No-one knew why – not even Vanora could shed light on her sister's disappearance. Dagonet sobered a little at the less joyful memories.

Suddenly cold, he pulled the furs over his bare stomach. His thoughts returned to Irri, and her beautiful mouth, curved like Tristan's bow. Dagonet summoned up Irri's image in his mind's eye: moonlit skin, fawn-coloured eyes, that unusual rounded mouth. He wanted to touch her again, to feel her soft hair, like smoke between his fingers. _However did the Goddess Branwen conjure up such beauty?_ Dagonet wondered.

He sat up in bed and gazed at his hands, shadowed from the fire. Thick lines running across his palms, large calluses at the bases of his fingers. _Hands like these do not deserve to touch skin like hers, _he reflected bleakly. _And if she wanted my hands, what could I give her? Marriage, sons – indebted to Rome from the day they were born? What kind of a life is that? _

Dagonet lay back down, angry with himself for being so pathetic. He wished he had more to offer her than a life of pain and heartbreak. Forlornly, he realised that he had not thoughton the prospect that she did not return his feelings.

The oil-lamp on the table beside his bed flickered as the door opened. The gentle smell of lavender reached Dagonet's nose. He sat up again as Irri came into his room, wearing a loose-fitting white nightgown that seemed to float around her. Her flaxen hair tumbled over her shoulders, long and free of tangles.

She was silent, standing before him, statuesque and radiant. Dagonet whispered her name as a gasp as Irri took two steps forwards and sat on the edge of his bed. She leant forwards and kissed him gently, laying her palms on his chest. The knight kissed her back, equally as gentle. He took her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes as they broke apart.

'You are so beautiful,' he murmured.

Irri kissed him again, harder this time. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, and took Dagonet's hands in hers. She lay them on her thighs and returned to kissing him passionately.

Dagonet pushed Irri's dress over her hips and slid the furs off himself. Then Irri placed herself over him and traced his mouth with her fingertips and moaned as he slid into her. They breathed together, his hands at the small of her back, hers around his neck and moving over each other like water.

Her body was warm and moist with sweat. He kissed her lips and neck and face and heard her cries and felt the desire she held for him in every brush of her skin against his. All their thoughts melted away, the space left behind encompassed by the delicate passion and glowing heat and flare of bliss that rose through their limbs and exploded through their mouths as they were brought together once more. Their skin shivered and Irri cried out with pleasure and Dagonet held her to him like a drowning child holds the arm that saves him.

She traced her finger over the scar beneath his eye and the smile she softly gave him filled the silence like the roar of the ocean. Dagonet couldn't bear the ecstasy and longing in her eyes so he kissed her again and again and felt her breasts beneath her dress, warm against his chest.

They lay down beside one another, out of breath. Irri rested her head over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath his skin, calm like the night.

'I was so afraid,' she whispered. 'That you did not feel for me.'

Dagonet ran his fingers through her silken hair, trying to quench the feeling of unbounded triumph that was rising inside him.

'Have I proved to you that it was wrong to fear that?' he asked, caressing her cheek.

Irri touched the scars over his ribs and let her fingers linger there.

'Yes,' she replied.

Dagonet's arm tightened around her and he pulled the furs up to cover them both. As the fire died down and the lamp beside the bed waned and dimmed, the only sounds left in the room was the gentle murmurings of the lovers in the bed and the sigh of the wind.

* * *

Cavan was asleep, wrapped up in her blankets to keep from dying of cold. In her dreams, a warm breeze rustled through the trees to either side of her as she rode on Falada's back through a green forest. They came to a clearing with a lake, and Cavan dismounted. Beside the water there lay a girl, naked, with white-blonde hair, her arms outstretched. Cavan walked slowly towards the girl, then gasped as she realised that she was dead. Blood pooled around the body and dribbled into the lake, mixing with the water and creating twisting patterns on the surface. Then Tristan appeared, a knife in his hands, his face and bare chest covered in blood.

'Come with me…' the dream-Tristan said, holding out his hand to her. 'Come with me!'

The dream swirled and the background of trees and water dripped into nothingness. Pure whiteness encompassed Cavan, and she fought against it. Then strong hands took her and she gave up fighting, letting herself be carried through the light and into the darkness of the world.

'Tristan?' she asked, as her eyes focussed on the man who stood before her.

'Come with me!' Tristan repeated, tugging on Cavan's arm.

'No!' she replied angrily, batting him away.

'Come with me _now_!' Tristan hissed. 'Or I swear to your God that I will tie you to my horse!'

Cavan jumped out of bed and went to slap him across the face. Tristan grabbed her hands, quickly spun her around and held her wrists tightly behind her.

'Let me go!' she cried.

'No! You're coming with me. Please, Cavan, I'm trying to save… to help you!'

Tristan pulled her out into the corridor and down the stairs, her struggling the whole way. He had trouble holding on to Cavan's wrists as he crossed the courtyard and marched her down the road to the stables.

It was early morning and the sun hadn't risen, but there was a pale tinge to the sky, hinting that dawn was approaching. The fort town of Castellum was empty, eerily quiet and pale with mist. The only things that moved were the pair fighting their way to the stables and the black-and-white cat that watched them from the shadows.

As they entered the stables, Cavan realised that what she was doing was useless. He wasn't going to just let her go: in fact, with her limbs so stiff, it was almost easier for him to move her. She let her muscles relax and her limbs went floppy. Tristan couldn't hold her up and she fell to the floor. Almost immediately she had climbed to her feet and performed the _maegis lojat _so well that Halasir would've been proud. Cavan knocked Tristan's arms aside and swung her arm up so that the elbow crunched into her brother's cheek. Then she pushed her hand forwards and trust the heel of her palm into Tristan's nose.

Her brother's hands flew to his face, and he cried out in pain. Cavan pushed past him and ran towards the door but Tristan was already steady, standing with a length of thick rope in his hands. He caught her arm and - as she fought hard against him - wrapped the rope round her wrists and tied it tightly.

'God's truth, Cavan, why must you fight so?' Tristan muttered.

He knotted the rest of the rope around a post and turned away from Cavan, saddling and bridling Maura. Tristan strapped two blankets and two bulging water skins to the saddle and filled his clothes with small knives. Tugging hard on the rope that bound her to the post, Cavan watched as he placed the blades in his clothing, memorising their positions.

Then Tristan turned to her and slowly unlaced the rope, retying it to Maura's reins. Then he pushed Cavan up and onto her back and climbed into the saddle in front of his sister.

'We can return as soon as it is safe,' Tristan said, then urged Maura forwards and out of the stable.

The black-and-white cat narrowed its eyes at the receding horse, licked its paws with an air of boredom, then turned and loped off in search of breakfast.

**I really can't believe I'm nearly there... twenty-three chapters and sixty thousand words, and I've almost reached the climax! I am so excited! Thank you for reading this, it really means _so much_! **


	24. And She Is Avilon Once More

**Chapter Twenty-Four: And She Is Avilon Once More**

Tristan and Cavan had been riding for three hours. They were moving at a leisurely pace - about two miles out of the town, Tristan had slowed Maura to a smooth, ambling walk. It was very cold. The sky was white, the clouds low and full to bursting with unshed tears of snow, and Cavan was shivering inside the thick woolen cloak and heavy boots that Tristan had given her.

'Why are you doing this?' Cavan asked for the twelfth time, her voice shaking slightly from the cold.

'Keep you safe,' Tristan replied shortly - the same answer he had used for the other eleven questions.

Cavan rested her head on her brother's back, and felt with satisfaction the knife just beneath her cheek. During the hours that had passed since they left Castellum, she had been planning how she could escape from her brother. She would cut through her bonds, knock him out, take Maura and ride back to Castellum to confront Arthur about why he had ordered Tristan to kidnap her - for where else could the order have come from?

The knife Cavan leant on was the only one of Tristan's knives that she could reach, her hands being tied and unmoveable. Gently, using her teeth, she took ahold of the dagger and slowly drew it out from within the folds of Tristan's clothes.

It fell from her mouth and she caught it with difficulty, her numb fingers proving to be more hindrance than help. Cavan smiled triumphantly to herself as her fingers finally curled around the blade; she turned it over and started to cut through the rope that tied her hands together.

It took about five minutes to successfully sever the rope. Keeping her fingers wrapped around it - so the slack wouldn't fall and alert Tristan of what she had done - she slowly slipped the knife into the pocket of her breeches and rubbed her sore wrists.

'What would you have done, if it had been warm, and I had been naked?' Cavan casually asked Tristan.

'Made you dress.'

'You wouldn't have been embarrassed?'

Tristan grunted in reply. Cavan wondered why he was so silent. Then she turned her mind back to the task at hand: escape. She gazed around for something that could make Tristan get off the horse. Her eyes alighted on the water skin that bulged next to her right thigh. Carefully - making sure she didn't let go of the rope - she loosened the tie that attached the skin to Maura's saddle. It hung low - ready to fall.

'I need to drink,' Cavan said shortly.

Her brother seemingly ignored her; he made no attempt to slow Maura or to reach for the skin. Just as Cavan was about to ask again, Tristan pulled gently on Maura's reins and she stopped, snorting quietly. Then he leant backwards - causing Cavan to mimic him or else risk being pushed off the horse - and extended his hand towards the water skin. As he did so, Cavan gently nudged it with her thigh and the tie that she had loosened unlaced completely. The skin, dropping with a thump onto the grass below, rolled a few inches before stilling.

'Tristan, I really need a drink!' Cavan urged, hitting him with her wrists.

'Stay on the horse,' Tristan replied quietly.

He slid off Maura, landing almost delicately on both feet, and bent to pick up the skin. Taking her chance, Cavan kicked out with a booted foot, and felt the sickening crunch as her heel connected with Tristan's jaw. He stood up quickly, reeling from the blow - but not unconscious. She punched him, knowing it was her last chance before he was able to come back at her. Her fist hit his temple so hard that flames erupted over her knuckles. Tristan's eyes rolled backwards and he sprawled on the grass as his body shut down to escape the pain.

Cavan allowed herself a few seconds to revel in her victory over the man - her _brother -_ who had kidnapped her, then jumped forwards into Maura's saddle, pulled her round in a wide circle and spurred her forwards with a cry.

Why had Arthur ordered Tristan to kidnap her? Tristan said he was keeping her safe… but from what? She would rather know what it was that she was being protected from that be coddled like some weak, naive girl. _I am not a child! _she yelled to herself.

Cavan rode for forty minutes at Maura's fastest pace. But when Castellum appeared on the horizon, she pulled the reins and stopped Maura dead. A wave of cold swept over her. _I have made a mistake, _she thought, frightened. Something had changed - Cavan had suddenly realised that Tristan had a reason for kidnapping her. Whatever that reason, she knew that he would not have done it if it were not to protect her. But she had been so angry - it had been impossible to realise that.

But then the memory of being tied to the stable post came back to her and for a second she was back in Evin's estate, her wrists bound and secured to the railing of the balcony as the night fell and the dark surrounded her and the cold creeped through her muscles and penetrated her soul and she was so afraid and so angry and so pathetic and then everything dropped away. She was Cavan again - and ridiculously furious at her brother, and at Arthur.

She deserved an explanation. The way she had been treated - by the men she trusted the most - was, in her mind, disgusting. Her trust had been betrayed and they were _all _going to pay.

* * *

Lancelot woke up angry. His vexation only grew when he remembered what had happened the previous night. And then, once he realised what day it was, he felt so incensed by the world that the only thing he could think of to diffuse his anger was to train. He went to Tristan's room - the Hyrci was always up for a fight - but the scout wasn't there. Lancelot turned to Galahad's door and kicked it open, only to find his brother naked, limbs entangled with Sansa's. They were both fast asleep. Cursing the rest of his brothers, Lancelot lashed out at the wall and dented it with his fist. Heat exploded in his knuckles and he felt all the more angry for being so stupid.

'_Veka sas huora!'_ Lancelot yelled, roaring the curse as loud as he could. Then he turned on his heel and stormed down the corridor.

It was cold outside, and the ground had frozen overnight. The icy wind was a welcome relief from the heat of the anger that burned within him, but he was also infuriated by it because he hated the cold. A few flakes of snow dripped from the white sky above him.

The Sarmation knight swore again as a snowflake landed on his cheek. He glared at the clouds and muttered a light-minded prayer to Arawn begging vengeance on the sky itself if the weather got worse.

Lancelot decide he needed a drink, so he sent one final dirty look upwards and set off for Vanora's. The town was empty - it seemed to be taking a breath after the Samhain festivities of the night before. Reflecting on the fact that it was possibly the first time he had woken up on the day after Samhain without a girl in his bed, Lancelot entered the square and saw Hani inside the taproom.

'Won't you let up?' she said when she noticed him. 'I will not bed you!'

'Get me some wine,' Lancelot said tersely, ignoring the words she had yelled at him.

He sat down heavily and pulled a blade from his belt, shoving it into the table and cutting out a sliver of the dark wood.

'Can I cheer you up?' Hani asked, setting a pitcher and two cups down on the table and sitting down beside Lancelot.

Lancelot poured himself a cup of wine and downed it in one. Then he refilled his cup and drank that, too. Then he shook his head.

'Not even with... Vanora's honey?' Hani said, her voice full of hidden glee.

She produced a round pot from behind her and pushed it towards Lancelot with a smile. When he simply frowned at it, Hani reached over and took of the lid. The sweet smell of honey overflowed and poured over the sids of the clay container. Lancelot didn't move.

'Come now, Lancelot, I have never seen you in such a dreadful mood!' Hani said jubilantly, dipping her finger into the honey and licking it.

Lancelot didn't respond, so Hani grinned and smeared some honey on the side of his face. He still did not move. She dunked her finger into the honey once more and this time spread it over his lips.

Suddenly Lancelot opened his mouth and his teeth gently clamped down onto her forefinger. Hani felt him taste the honey and then lick her finger. A shiver ran down her spine. She leaned into him and ran her tongue over the honey she had streaked on his cheek. She could feel their closeness - it was electrifying, like the heavy air just before a storm.

Then Lancelot's hands passed over her neck and she turned her head ever so slightly and then their lips met and she couldn't help but push her body closer to his and her hands were knotted in his hair and he tasted like honey and wine and smelt so deliciously _male_.

And Lancelot kissed her back and felt her soft curves underneath his steady hands. All his anger seemed to fade away. He forgot Tristan's anger and Cavan's tears, and he forgot everything that that day would bring. All he could think about was the soft lips against his own.

'I still won't bed you!' Hani said brightly as their kiss ended. She touched her lips once more to his cheek and then was gone.

Lancelot watched her go, knowing that he didn't mind that he could not touch her thighs and kiss her breasts - she made him calm and that was all he cared about.

A sharp cry brought Lancelot from his pensive state. He looked around for the source and his eyes alighted on Arthur, who was standing just outside the stables. He was gesturing vigorously, indicating that Lancelot needed to join him.

'The caravan has been sighted,' Arthur said breathlessly as Lancelot came into hearing distance.

'_Iera sjata!' _Lancelot swore.

'Lancelot, please,' Arthur admonished. 'We have to meet them, in case something happens.'

'I don't want to go anywhere near that fucking -'

'Lancelot!' Arthur broke in. 'We have no power over this situation. Go and find the others. Now!'

Lancelot turned and set off for the Knight's rooms, spitting out a stream of curses unusually vulgar, even for him. A mixture of Latin and Sarmation curses, the list seemed endless. He had not exhausted his plethora of swearwords even when he reached Dagonet's room.

He didn't bother with knocking; the door banged against the wall as he kicked it open.

Inside, Dagonet was laying in the bed, a girl draped over his chest. She seemed to be asleep. Dagonet was watching her, a contended smile hovering around his lips.

As Lancelot came over the threshold, his face a mask of storming anger, Dagonet held up his hand to stop Lancelot from making any more noise.

'Hush!' he said quietly.

Slowly, Dagonet slipped from underneath the sleeping and climbed out of the bed, making sure she was covered with blankets. He pulled on some breeches, poured himself a cup of wine, and then turned to Lancelot, drinking deeply.

'What is it?' Dagonet asked, his deep voice rough with sleep.

'Caravan's been sighted,' Lancelot said shortly. 'We're leaving now.'

Dagonet looked at the floor, taking the information on board and controlling his reaction. Then he looked up at Lancelot. He reach out and put his hand on his brother's shoulder, gently.

'There is nothing we can do,' Dagonet began, but Lancelot scoffed him and spat on the floor.

'Lancelot,' Dagonet started again.

'_We could have done more!_' Lancelot shouted over him.

The girl in the bed stirred and sat up, woken by Lancelot's cry. As he turned to leave the room, Lancelot saw who it was: Irri. But then he

'Dag?' Irri questioned, clasping the blankets over her naked body. She gazed at Dagonet as he turned round to face her, his eyes saddened by what he had heard.

'We're going scouting,' he lied. 'I'll be back in a few hours. Will you be alright?'

'If you come here and kiss me once more.'

Dagonet smiled and sat down on the bed, and took Irri in his arms and felt her wrap her body around his and tasted her warmth on his tongue and smelt the soft perfume rising from her velvet skin.

They broke apart and Irri smiled up at him and laid her fingers ever so gently on his cheek. Then she stood up, wrapping the sheets around herself like a dress, and crossed the room to the door, where she turned round and met Dagonet's tender gaze.

'Come back to me,' she whispered.

* * *

Cavan slowed Maura as they trotted through the gates, waved in by the uniformed Roman sentries at their posts. Cavan nodded her thanks the the two men - one on either side of the gate - and guided Maura through the narrow streets and towards the stables. Once there, Cavan brushed Maura down and made sure she had water before leaving the stables and heading for her room.

Cavan didn't want to let her anger control her; she forced herself to walk slowly, to take all the time she could over everything. She reached her room having met no-one on the way. It was strange - there seemed to be no-one awake. She knocked on Dagonet's door, but no-one answered, so she opened his door and looked inside. His room was empty.

She went into her own room and shut the door behind her. Everything was where she had left it when Tristan had taken her. Cavan pulled off her boots, breeches and shirt and washed herself quickly from the basin on the table behind the door. She searched through her chest for something to wear; she chose a pale green, long-sleeved peplos and sandals.

Cavan sat down to force herself not to run out of her room and find Arthur. She ran her fingers through her hair and twisted it into two long sections. Using a thick strip of blue fabric as the third part, she braided her hair and coiled it at the back of her head, securing it with a long pin.

Making sure she was presentable, Cavan took a deep breath and prepared herself for facing Arthur. She had some reservations about confronting him; he had been so kind to her, allowing her to stay at the fort, offering her protection… Why would he have ordered Tristan to _kidnap _her? Everything was so confusing.

She set off down the empty corridor, Her dress hung softly on her, making small whispering noises as the hem brushed the floor. Cavan decided that it would be a good idea to check the fortress hall- the knights could have been given new orders from the Romans. She turned left at the bottom of the stairs and followed the passageway to where it opened out into a high-ceilinged anti-chamber that would lead through to the fortress hall.

It was empty, save for the elegant chairs that lined the walls, interspersed with tall marble statues of women wrapped in gossamer. The ceiling and walls were painted white, with small round windows through which shafts of pale yellow light came. Having been inside the fortress hall, Cavan knew how much different the anti-chambers were. The fortress hall itself was dark, the walls black and gold, with barely any natural light. She wondered why the building had been created that way.

Suddenly Cavan could hear voices. They were coming from behind the door opposite her; the door that led into the fortress hall. She stepped forwards.

'Please don't go in there,' came a quiet, but deep voice from behind her.

Cavan turned around, although she already knew who it was. She crossed the room and put her hand on Gawain's cheek.

'Why not?'

Gawain suddenly grabbed her arms and pulled her close.

'Cavan, _don't _go in there!' he insisted.

'I'm going to find out, whatever it is that you're hiding from me.'

'I know you are,' Gawain replied miserably. 'Please know that it was never my intention to hurt you. I would never want any harm to come to you.'

His voice was so sincere that Cavan was a little taken aback. Suddenly she forgot that there was something waiting in the room behind her that she was not going to like; instead, the only thing she could think of was how beautiful the man standing before her was. She wound one of his braids round her finger, and then traced his jawbone with her thumb.

Gawain pulled her into his arms and kissed her. But the kiss scared her; there was too much pressure, too strong an edge in the way his lips crushed hers. It was as though he felt they only had a few more seconds together before they would be ripped apart forever.

And then, suddenly, a door behind them opened, and they had broken apart and both turned to see who had come through and Gawain gulped in a gasp and his hand gripped Cavan's like a vice and then the silence was shattered by a laugh and then one word was spoken.

'Avilon.'

And for Cavan, the world ended.


End file.
